THE  LOST  CHILDREN. 


THE 


LOST    CHILDREN, 


OTHER  STORIES. 


BY    T.    S.   A  R  T  H  U  R. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  FROM  ORIGINAL  DESIGNS  BY  CROOME. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

LIPPINCOTT,  GRAMBO   &   CO. 
1854. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1852,  by 

UPPINCOTT,  GRAMBO  &  CO. 

in  the  Clerk's  OClee  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Eastern  District  of 
Pennsylvania, 


FRETTED  BY  C.  SHERMAS. 


CONTENTS. 


THE  LOST  CHILDREN 7 

HARSH  WORDS  AND   KIND  WORDS.: 14 

THE   DRUNKARD'S   GOOD  ANGELS 23 

GOOD  AND  EVIL  ANIMALS 37 

THE  MOTHER'S   GRAVE 40 

THE   STORY  OF  THE  LITTLE  LAMB 50 

THE  YOUNG  TEACHER 55 

A  CONVERSATION 69 

SPEAK  KINDLY 72 

I  CAN'T  DO  IT 85 

A  GENTLEMAN 92 

THE  SABBATH-SCHOOL 97 

FIRST  EARNINGS 103 

GOD  SEES  US 129 

THE  PET  SPARROW 133 

THE   POWER  OF  KIND  WORDS 150 


THE  LOST  CHILDREN. 


"  rFELL  us  the  story  about  the  lost  chil- 
dren,  dear  mother/'  said  George,  lay- 
ing down  his  playthings  and  coming  to  his 
mother's  side. 

"  Oh,  yes,  do,  mother,  please,"  added  the 
little  boy's  sister;  a  bright-eyed,  rosy- 
cheeked  girl,  just  ten  years  old. 

"  I  told  you  the  story  yesterday,"  replied 
the  mother. 

"I  know  you  did/'  answered  George. 
"  But  we  want  to  hear  it  again.  Tell  it  to 
us,  dear  mother,  and  we  will  be  such  good 
children !" 

"  There  was  once  a  little  boy  and  girl," 
began  the  mother;  "  no  older  than  you  are, 


THE    LOST    CHILDREN. 


my  children,  who  got  lost  in  a  thick,  dark 
wood,  in  which  were  fierce  wild  beasts. 
They  were  brother  and  sister,  and  their 
names  were  Edward  and  Ellen.  They 
were  playing  near  their  father's  house  one 
day,  when  Edward  said,  '  Come,  sister,  let 
us  go  across  the  field  into  the  woods  yonder, 
and  gather  some  pretty* flowers  for  mamma.' 

"Ellen  was  pleased  at  the  thought  of 
getting  for  her  dear  mamma  a  beautiful 
bunch  of  flowers,  and  so  she  said,  £0h, 
yes,  brother,  let  us  go/ 

"  So  this  little  boy  and  girl  went  across 
the  field  and  into  the  woods,  where  they 
wandered  about,  gathering  a  great  many 
bright  wild  flowers.  When  their  hands 
were  full,  Ellen  said,  'Now,  brother,  let 
us  go  home/ 

"  They  took  hold  of  each  other's  hands 
and  started,  as  they  thought,  toward  their 
home ;  but  I  am  sorry  to  say  they  went 
away  from,  instead  of  toward  their  home, 
and  soon  found  that  they  were  lost  in  a 
thick,  dark  wood.  Poor  Ellen  began  to 


THE   LOST   CHILDREN.  9 


cry.  Edward  put  his  arm  around  her, 
and  said — 

"*  Don't  cry,  sister,  we  will  find  our  way 
home.' 

"C0h,  no,  Edward,"  she  said,  'we  are 
lost  in  the  woods,  and  it  will  soon  be  dark. 
Oh !  we  shall  be  eaten  up  by  the  wolves.' 

" c  The  wolves  will  not  eat  us  up,'  replied 
the  brave-hearted  little  boy,  confidently. 
c  So  don't  cry,  sister.' 

"  *  Oh,  yes,  I  am  sure  they  will/ 

"  i  Don't  be  afraid.  I  know  they  won't 
hurt  us.  "Wolves  are  wicked  animals,  but 
if  we  pray  to  God  to  take  care  of  us,  He 
will  not  let  the  wolves  hurt  us.' 

"  c  Oh,  let  us  pray  then,'  said  Ellen.  And 
all  alone  in  the  gloomy  forest,  this  dear 
little  boy  and  his  sister  knelt  down  and 
prayed  that  God  would  keep  the  wicked 
wolves  from  hurting  them.' 

"After  they  had  prayed,  Ellen's  tears 
dried  up,  and  she  took  hold  of  Edward's 
arm,  and  clung  close  to  his  side.  Just 
then  u  deep  growl  sounded  through  the 


10  THE   LOST   CHILDREN. 


forest,  and  presently  they  saw  a  long  gray 
wolf  coming  fiercely  toward  them. 

"  The  children  dropped  upon  their  knees, 
and  Edward  said  aloud — 

"  '  Our  Father  in  heaven,  keep  the  wolves 
from  hurting  us/ 

"  They  had  no  sooner  prayed  that  prayer 
than  the  wolf  stopped  right  still  for  a 
minute  or  two,  and  then  ran  off  another 
way. 

"  They  were  very  much  frightened,  and 
trembled  all  over.  Ellen  said — 

"  '  God  has  made  the  wicked  wolf  go 
away — He  will  not  let  him  hurt  us.  Oh, 
I  wish  He  would  show  us  the  way  home. 
It  is  getting  so  dark.' 

"  '  Let  us  ask  Him  to  show  us  the  way 
home/  said  Edward. 

"Again  the  lost  children  knelt  down 
and  prayed.  They  were  still  on  their 
knees  when  they  heard  afar  off,  the  sound 
of  their  father's  voice  calling  them.  Oh ! 
how  their  little  hearts  jumped  for  joy. 
They  sprang  up,  and  ran  as  fast  as  they 


THE  LOST   CHILDREN.  11 


could  in  the  direction  from  which  the 
sound  came.  In  a  little  while  they  were 
in  their  father's  arms,  crying  for  joy." 

"  I  am  so  glad !"  exclaimed  George  and 
his  sister  at  once;  " God  wouldn't  let  the 
wicked  wolf  eat  them  up." 

"No,  my  children.  He  kept  them  from 
all  harm.  Ahd  if  you  will  be  good,  and 
pray  to  him,  He  will  protect  you  in  every 
danger." 

"  Don't  you  know  any  more  stories  about 
lost  children,  dear  mother  ?"  asked  George. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  about  the  Children  of 
Men,  who  were  once  lost  in  the  Wilder- 
ness of  Sin  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  do  mother.  But  who  were 
the  Children  of  Men?" 

"  All  the  people  in  the  world  are  called 
the  Children  of  Men." 

"  And  were  all  the  people  in  the  world 
once  lost,  dear  mother  ?" 

"  Yes,  all  mankind  were  once  lost,  and 
about  to  be  destroyed  by  hungry  wolves — 


12  THE   LOST    CHILDREN. 


but  the  Lord  saved  them,  and  brought 
them  out  of  the  wilderness." 

"  Won't  you  tell  us  all  about  it,  mother?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  will  listen  very  attentively. 
I  do  not  mean  that  all  children  of  men 
were  lost  in  just  such  a  wood  as  Edward 
and  Ellen  were  lost  in;  nor,  that  they 
were  in  danger  of  being  eaten  up  by  such 
wolves  as  threatened  to  eat  up  this  dear 
little  boy  and  girl." 

"What  kind  of  wolves  were  they?" 
asked  the  children. 

"  They  were  just  such  things  in  their 
hearts  as  corresponded  to  wolves  and  every 
evil  and  hurtful  beast — wicked  passions. 
But  let  me  tell  you  all  about  it.  The 
Lord  made  men  innocent  and  good.  All 
things  around  them  were  as  beautiful  as 
the  fairest  garden  you  have  ever  seen. 
In  their  hearts  dwelt  only  those  good  feel- 
ings to  which  the  larnbs  and  doves  and  all 
good  animals  correspond.  They  were  very 
happy,  and  angels  were  their  companions. 

"  But,  after  a  while,  the  children  of  men 


THE    LOST    CHILDREN.  18 


began  to  forget  the  good  Lord  who  made 
them,  and  gave  them  every  blessing  they 
enjoyed.  At  the  same  time  that  they  forgot 
God,  they  forgot  to  love  one  another.  The 
innocent  lambs  began  to  die  in  their  bosoms, 
and  evil  beasts  of  prey  to  take  their  place. 
They  hated,  instead  of  loving  o»e  another. 
Then  war,  dreadful  war,  first  appeared  on 
the  earth.  Men  not  only  hated,  but  sought 
to  kill  each  other.  Wicked  spirits  possessed 
them,  soul  and  body.  They  were  as  if 
lost  in  a  great  wilderness,  and  about  to  be 
destroyed  by  the  wild  beasts  that  were  in 
their  hearts. 

"  It  was  then  that  the  Lord  came  and 
saved  them.  He  drove  out  the  evil  spirits 
and  cruel  beasts,  and  led  the  lost  Children 
of  Men  out  of  this  dark  and  fearful  wilder- 
ness. It  was  Jesus  Christ,  of  whom  you 
read  in  the  New  Testament,  the  Lord  of 
Heaven  and  Earth,  who  did  this.  When 
you  are  older,  and  can  understand  better 
I  will  tell  you  more  about  the  lost  Children 
of  Men,  and  the  good  Lord  who  saved  them." 


HAESH  WORDS  AND  KIND 
WOKDS. 


"  TTEKE !  lend  me  your  knife,  Bill;  I've 
left  mine  in  the  house,"  said  Edgar 
Harris  to  his  younger  brother.  He  spoke 
in  a  rude  voice,  and  his  manner  was  im- 
perative. 

"  No,  I  won't !  Go  and  get  your  own 
knife,"  replied  William,  in  a  tone  quite  as 
ungracious  as  that  in  which  the  request,  or 
rather  command,  had  been  made. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  go  into  the  house. 
Give  me  your  knife,  I  say.  I  only  want 
it  for  a  minute." 

14 


HARSH  WORDS  AND  KIND  WORDS.     15 


"I  never  lend  my  knife,  nor  give  it, 
either,"  returned  William.  "Get  your 
own." 

"  You  are  the  most  disobliging  fellow  I 
ever  saw,"  retorted  Edgar,  angrily — rising 
up  and  going  into  the  house  to  get  his  own 
knife.  "  Don't  ask  me  for  a  favour,  for  I'll 
never  grant  it." 

This  very  unbrotherly  conversation  took 
place  just  beneath  the  window  near  which 
Mr.  Harris,  the  father  of  the  lads,  was 
seated.  He  overheard  it  all,  and  was,  as 
may  be  supposed,  grieved  that  his  sons 
should  treat  each  other  so  unkindly.  But 
he  said  nothing  to  them  then,  nor  did  he 
let  them  know  that  he  heard  the  language 
which  had  passed  between  them. 

In  a  little  while  Edgar  returned,  and  as  he 
sat  down  in  the  place  where  he  had  been 
seated  before,  he  said — 

"  No  thanks  to  you  for  your  old  knife  I 
Keep  it  to  yourself  in  welcome.  I  wouldn't 
Tise  it  now,  if  you  were  to  give  it  to  me.'' 

"I  am  glad  you  are  so  independent,'* 


16     HARSH  WORDS  AND  KIXD  WORDS. 


retorted  William.  "  I  hope  you  will  al- 
ways be  so." 

And  then  the  boys  fretted  each  other  for 
some  time. 

On  the  next  day,  Edgar  was  building  a 
house  with  sticks,  and  William  was  rolling 
a  hoop.  By  accident,  the  hoop  was  turned 
from  its  right  course,  and  broke  down  a 
part  of  Edgar's  house.  William  was  just 
going  to  say  how  sorry  he  was  for  the 
accident,  and  to  offer  to  repair  the  damage 
that  was  done,  when  his  brother,  with  his 
face  red  with  passion,  cried  out — 

"  Just  see  what  you  have  done  !  If  you 
don't  clear  out  with  your  hoop,  I'll  call 
father.  You  did  it  on  purpose." 

"  Do,  go  and  call  him !  I'll  go  with  you," 
said  William,  in  a  sneering,  tantalizing  tone. 
•"  Come  !  come  along  now." 

For  a  little  while  the  boys  stood  and 
growled  at  each  other  like  two  ill-natured 
•dogs,  and  then  Edgar  commenced  repairing 
his  house,  and  William  went  to  rolling  his 
iioop  again.  The  latter  was  strongly 


HARSH   WORDS   AND   KIND   WORDS.  17 


tempted  to  repeat,  in  earnest,  what  he  had 
done  at  first  by  accident,  by  way  of  retalia- 
tion upon  his  brother  for  his  spiteful  man- 
ner toward  him ;  but  being  naturally  of  a 
good  disposition,  and  forgiving  in  his  tem- 
per, he  soon  forgot  his  bad  feelings,  and 
enjoyed  his  play  as  much  as  he  had  done 
before. 

This  little  circumstance  Mr.  Harris  had 
also  observed. 

A  day  or  two  afterward,  Edgar  came  to 
his  father  with  a  complaint  against  his 
brother. 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  boy,"  said  he.  "He 
won't  do  the  least  thing  to  oblige  me.  If 
I  ask  him  to  lend  me  his  knife,  or  ball,  or 
any  thing  that  he  has,  he  snaps  me  up 
short  with  a  refusal." 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  ask  him  right,"  sug- 
gested the  father.  "  Perhaps  you  don't 
speak  kindly  to  him.  I  hardly  think  that 
William  is  ill-disposed  and  disobliging 
naturally,  There  must  be  some  fault  on 
your  part,  I  am  sure." 


18  HARSH   WORDS   AND    KIXD    WORDS. 


"  I  don't  know  how  I  can  be  in  fault, 
father,"  said  Edgar. 

"  William  refused  to  let  you  have  his 
knife  the  other  day,  although  he  was  not 
using  it  himself,  did  he  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Do  you  remember  how  you  asked  him 
for  it  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  not  now,  particularly." 

"  Well,  as  I  happened  to  overhear  you, 
I  can  repeat  your  words,  though  I  hardly 
think  I  can  get  your  very  tone  and  manner. 
Your  words  were,  'Here,  lend  me  your 
knife,  Bill;'  and  your  voice  and  manner 
were  exceedingly  offensive.  I  did  not  at 
all  wonder  that  William  refused  your  re- 
quest. If  you  had  spoken  to  him  in  a 
kind  manner,  I  am  sure  he  would  have 
handed  you  his  knife  instantly.  But  no 
one  likes  to  be  ordered,  in  a  domineering 
way,  to  do  any  thing  at  all.  I  know  you 
would  resent  it  in  William,  as  quickly  as 
he  resents  it  in  you.  Correct  your  own 
fault,  my  son,  and  in  a  little  while  you 


HARSH  WORDS  AND  KIXD  WORDS.     19 


will  have  no  complaint  to  make  of  Wil- 
liam." 

Edgar  felt  rebuked.  What  his  father 
said  he  saw  to  be  true. 

"Whenever  you  want  William  to  do 
any  thing  for  you,"  continued  the  father, 
"  use  kind  words  instead  of  harsh  ones,  and 
you  will  find  him  as  obliging  as  you  could 
wish.  I  have  observed  you  both  a  good 
deal,  and  I  notice  that  you  rarely  ever 
speak  to  William  in  a  proper  manner,  but 
are  rude  and  overbearing.  Correct  this 
evil  in  yourself,  and  all  will  be  right  with 
him.  Kind  words  are  far  more  powerful 
than  harsh  words,  and  their  effect  a  hun- 
dred-fold greater." 

On  the  next  day,  as  Edgar  was  at  work 
in  the  garden,  and  William  standing  at 
the  gate  looking  on,  Edgar  wanted  a  rake 
that  was  in  the  summer-house.  "  He  was 
just  going  to  say,  "  Go  and  get  me  that 
rake,  Bill!"  but  he  checked  himself,  and. 
made  his  request  in  a  different  form,  and 


20  HARSH   WORDS   AND    KIND   WORDS. 


in  a  better  tone  than  those  words  would 
have  been  uttered  in. 

"  Won't  you  get  me  the  small  rake  that 
lies  in  the  summer-house,  William?"  said 
he.  The  words  and  tone  involved  a  re- 
quest, not  a  command,  and  William  in- 
stantly replied — 

"Certainly;"  and  bounded  away  to  get 
the  rake  for  his  brother. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Edgar,  as  he  received 
the  rake. 

"Don't  you  want  the  watering-pot?" 
asked  William. 

"Yes,  I  do;  and  you  may  bring  it  full 
of  water,  if  you  please,"  was  the  reply. 

Off  William  went  for  the  watering-pot, 
and  soon  returned  with  it  full  of  water. 
As  he  stood  near  one  of  Edgar's  flower-beds 
lie  forgot  himself  and  stepped  back  with 
his  foot  upon  some  pansies. 

"There!  just  look  at  you!"  exclaimed 
Edgar,  thrown  off  his  guard. 

William,  who  had  felt  drawn  toward  his 
brother  on  account  of  his  kind  manner, 


HARSH    WORDS   AND    KIXD    WORDS.  21 


was  hurt  at  this  sudden  change  in  his 
words  and  tone.  He  was  tempted  to  retort 
harshly,  and  even  to  set  his  foot  more 
roughly  upon  the  pansies.  But  he  checked 
himself,  and  turning  away,  walked  slowly 
from  the  garden. 

Edgar,  who  had  repented  of  his  rude 
words  and  unkind  manner  the  moment  he 
had  time  to  think,  was  very  sorry  that  he 
had  been  thrown  off  of  his  guard,  and  re- 
solved to  be  more  careful  in  the  future. 
And  he  was  more  careful.  The  next  time 
he  spoke  to  his  brother,  it  was  in  a  kind 
and  gentle  manner,  and  he  saw  its  effect. 
Since  then,  he  has  been  watchful  over  him- 
self, and  now  he  finds  that  William  is  one 
of  the  most  obliging  boys  anywhere  to  be 
found. 

"  So  much  for  kind  words,  my  son,"  said 
his  father,  on  noticing  the  great  change 
that  had  taken  place.  "Never  forget, 
throughout  your  whole  life,  that  kind 
words  are  far  more  potent  than  harsh 
ones.  I  have  found  them  so,  and  you 


22  HARSH   WORDS   AND    KIND   WORDS. 


have  already  proved  the  truth  of  what  I 
say." 

And  so  will  every  one  who  tries  them. 
Make  the  experiment,  young  friends,  and 
you  will  find  it  to  succeed  in  every  case. 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  GOOD 
ANGELS. 


,  Ady  and  Jane,  it's  time  you 
were  in  bed,"  said  Mrs.  Freeman  to 
her  two  little  girls,  about  nine  o'clock  one 
evening.  Ady  was  nine  years  old,  and 
Jane  was  a  year  and  a  half  younger.  The 
two  children  had  been  sitting  at  the  work- 
table  with  their  mother,  one  of  them  study- 
ing her  lesson,  and  the  other  engaged  on  a 
piece  of  fancy  needlework. 

"Papa  hasn't  come  yet,"  answered  Ady. 

"  No,  dear.  But  it's  getting  late,  and  is 
time  you  were  in  bed.  He  may  not  be 
home  for  an  hour." 

Ady  laid  aside  her  work  and  left  the  ta- 
ble, and  Jane  closed  her  books  and  put 
them  away  in  her  school-satchel. 


24         THE  DRUNKARD'S  GOOD  ANGELS. 


"You  can  light  the  little  lamp  on  the 
mantel-piece,"  said  Mrs.  Freeman,  after  a 
few  minutes,  looking  around  as  she  spoke, 
when  she  saw  that  the  children  had  both 
put  on  their  bonnets,  and  were  tying  their 
warm  capes  close  about  their  necks.  She 
understood  very  well  the  meaning  of  this; 
and,  therefore,  did  not  ask  a  question,  al- 
though the  tears  came  to  her  eyes,  and  her 
voice  trembled  as  she  said — 

"It  is  very  cold  out,  to-night,  children." 

"But  we  won't  feel  it,  mother,"  replied 
Ady.  "  We'll  run  along  very  quickly." 

And  the  two  little  ones  went  out,  before 
their  mother,  whose  feelings  were  choking 
her,  could  say  a  word  more.  As  they  closed 
the  door  after  them,  and  left  her  alone,  she 
raised  her  eyes  upward,  and  murmured — 

"God  bless  and  reward  the  dear  chil- 
dren!" 

It  was  a  bleak,  winter  night;  and,  as  the 
little  adventurers  stepped  into  the  street, 
the  wind  swept  fiercely  along,  and  almost 
drove  them  back  against  the  door.  But 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  GOOD  AXGELS.          25 


they  caught  each  other  tightly  by  the  hands, 
and  bending  their  little  forms  to  meet  the 
pressure  of  the  cold,  rushing  air,  hurried 
on  the  way  they  were  going  as  fast  as  their 
feet  could  move.  The  streets  were  dark 
and  deserted,  but  the  children  were  not 
afraid ;  love  filled  their  hearts,  and  left  no 
room  for  fear. 

They  did  not  speak  a  word  to  each  other 
as  they  hastened  along.  After  going  for  a 
distance  of  several  blocks,  they  stopped  be- 
fore a  house,  over  the  door  of  which  was  a 
handsome,  ornamental  gas-lamp,  bearing 
the  words  "Oysters  and  Kefreshments." 
It  was  a  strange  place  for  two  little  girls 
like  them  to  enter,  and  at  such  an  hour; 
but  after  standing  for  a  moment,  they  push- 
ed against  the  green  door,  which  turned 
lightly  on  its  hinges,  and  stepped  into  a 
large  and  brilliantly  lighted  bar-room. 

"Bless  us!"  exclaimed  a  man,  who  sat 
reading  at  a  table.  "  Here  are  those  babes 


again  I 


Ady  and  Jane  stood  still,  near  the  door, 


26         THE  DRUNKARD'S  GOOD  ANGELS. 


and  looked  all  around  the  room.  But  not 
seeing  the  object  of  their  search,  they  went 
up  to  the  bar,  and  said  timidly  to  a  man 
who  stood  behind  it,  pouring  liquor  into 
glasses — 

"Has  papa  been  here  to-night?" 
The  man  leaned  over  the  bar,  until  his 
face  was  close  to  the  children,  when  he 
said,  in  an  angry  way, — 

"I  don't  know  any  thing  about  your 
father.  And,  see  here!  don't  you  come 
here  any  more.  If  you  do,  I'll  call  my  big 
dog  out  of  the  yard  and  make  him  bite 

you." 

Ady  and  Jane  felt  frightened,  as  well  by 
the  harsh  manner  as  the  angry  words  of  the 
man,  and  they  started  back  from  him,  and 
were  turning  toward  the  door  with  sad 
faces,  when  the  person  who  had  first  re- 
marked their  entrance  called  out,  loud 
enough  for  them  to  hear  him — 

"Come  here,  my  little  girls." 

The  children  stopped  and  looked  at  him, 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  GOOD  ANGELS.         27 


when  lie  beckoned  for  them  to  approach, 
and  they  did  so. 

"Are  you  looking  for  your  father?"  he 
asked. 

"  Yes,  sir/'  replied  Ady. 

"What  did  that  man  at  the  bar  say  to 
you?" 

"He  said  papa  wasn't  here;  and  that  if 
we  came  any  more,  he  would  set  his  dog  on 
us." 

"He  did!" 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  man  knit  his  brows  for  an  instant. 
Then  he  said — 

"Who  sent  you  here?" 

"  Nobody,"  answered  Ady. 

"Don't  your  mother  know  you  have 
come?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  She  told  us  to  go  to  bed;  but 
we  couldn't  go  until  papa  was  home.  And 
so  we  came  for  him,  first." 

"He  is  here!" 

"Is  he?"  And  the  children's  faces 
brightened. 

IX.-C 


28         THE  DRUNKARD'S  GOOD  ANGELS. 


"  Yes.  He's  at  the  other  side  of  the  room 
asleep.  I'll  wake  him  for  you." 

Half  intoxicated,  and  sound  asleep,  it 
was  with  some  difficulty  that  Mr.  Freeman 
could  be  aroused. 

As  soon,  however,  as  his  eyes  were  fairly 
opened,  and  he  found  that  Ady  and  Jane 
had  each  grasped  tightly  one  of  his  hands, 
he  arose  up,  and  yielding  passively  to  their 
direction,  suffered  them  to  lead  him  away. 

"Oh  dear!"  exclaimed  a  man  who  had 
looked  on  with  wonder  and  deep  interest. 
"  That's  a  temperance  lecture  that  I  can't 
stand.  God  bles§  the  little  ones!"  he  ad- 
ded with  emotion,  "  and  give  them  a  sober 
fetter." 

"  I  guess  you  never  saw  them  before  ?" 
said  one  of  the  bar-keepers  lightly. 

"  No ;  and  I  never  wish  to  again ;  at  least 
in  this  place.  Who  is  their  father?" 

"Freeman,  the  lawyer." 

"Not  the  one  who,  a  few  years  ago,  con- 
ducted, with  so  much  ability,  the  case 
against  the  Marine  Insurance  Company  ?" 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  GOOD  ANGELS.    29 


"The  same." 

" Is  it  possible?" 

A  little  group  now  formed  around  the 
man,  and  a  good  deal  was  said  about  Free- 
man and  his  fall  from  sobriety.  One  who 
had  several  times  seen  Ady  and  Jane  come 
in,  and  lead  him  home  as  they  had  just 
done,  spoke  of  them  with  much  feeling, 
and  all  agreed  that  it  was  a  most  touching 
case. 

"To  see,"  said  one,  "how  passively  he 
yields  himself  to  the  little  things,  when  they 
come  after  him.  I  feel,  sometimes,  when 
I  see  them,  almost  weak  enough  to  -shed 
tears." 

"They  are  his  good  angels,"  remarked 
another.  "But  I'm  afraid  they  are  not 
strong  enough  to  lead  him  back  to  the 
paths  he  has  forsaken." 

"  You  can  think  what  you  please  about 
it,  gentlemen,"  spoke  up  the  landlord,  "but 
I  can  tell  you  my  opinion  on  the  subject : 
I  wouldn't  give  much  for  the  mother  who 
would  let  two  little  things  like  them  go 


30         THE  DRUNKARD'S  GOOD  ANGELS. 


wandering  about  the  street  alone,  at  this 
time  of  night." 

One  of  those  who  had  expressed  interest 
in  the  children,  felt  angry  at  this  remark, 
and  he  retorted  with  some  bitterness — 

"  And  I  would  give  less  for  the  man  who 
would  make  their  father  drunk !" 

"Ditto  to  that,"  responded  one  of  the 
company. 

"And  here's  my  hand  to  that,"  said 
another. 

The  landlord,  finding  that  the  majority 
of  his  company  were  likely  to  be  against 
him,  smothered  his  angry  feelings  and  kept 
silence.  A  few  minutes  afterward,  two 
or  three  of  the  inmates  of  the  bar-room 
went  away. 

About  ten  o'clock  on  the  next  morning, 
while  Mr.  Freeman,  who  was  generally 
sober  in  the  fore  part  of  the  day,  was  in 
his  office,  a  stranger  entered,  and  after 
sitting  down,  said — 

"I  must  crave  your  pardon  beforehand 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  GOOD  AXGELS.         81 


for  what  I  am  going  to  say.  Will  you 
promise  not  to  be  offended  ?" 

"  If  you  offer  me  an  insult  I  will  resent 
it,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"  So  far  from  that,  I  come  with  the  de- 
sire to  do  you  a  great  service." 

"  Very  well.     Say  on." 

"  I  was  at  Lawson's  refectory  last  night." 

"Well?" 

"And  I  saw  something  there  that 
touched  my  heart.  If  I  slept  at  all  last 
night,  it  was  only  to  dream  of  it.  I  am  a 
father,  sir !  I  have  two  little  girls ;  and  I 
love  them  tenderly.  Oh,  sir !  the  thought 
of  their  coming  out,  in  the  cold  winter 
night,  in  search  of  me,  in  such  a  polluted 
place,  makes  the  blood  feel  cold  in  my 
veins." 

Words  so  unexpected,  coming  upon  Mr. 
Freeman  when  he  was  comparatively  sober, 
disturbed  him  deeply.  In  spite  of  all  his 
endeavours  to  remain  calm,  he  trembled 
all  over.  He  made  an  effort  to  say  some- 
thing in  reply;  but  could  not  utter  a  word. 


32'        THE  DRUNKARD'S  GOOD  ANGELS. 


"  My  dear  sir,"  pursued  the  strange?, 
"you  have  fallen  at  the  hand  of  the  mon- 
ster intemperance,  and  I  feel  that  I  am  in 
great  peril.  You  have  not,  however,  fallen 
hopelessly.  You  may  yet  rise,  if  you  will. 
Let  me,  then,  in  the  name  of  the  sweet 
babes  who  have  shown,  in  so  wonderful  a 
manner,  their  love  for  you,  conjure  you  to 
rise  superior  to  this  deadly  foe.  Reward 
those  dear  children  with  the  highest  bless- 
ing their  hearts  can  desire.  Come  with 
me  and  sign  the  pledge  of  freedom.  Let 
us,  though  strangers  to  each  other,  unite 
in  this  one  good  act.  Come !" 

Half  bewildered,  yet  with  a  new  hope  in 
his  heart,  Freeman  arose,  and  suffered  the 
man,  who  drew  his  arm  within  his,  to 
lejftl  him  away.  Before  they  separated, 
both  had  signed  the  pledge. 

That  evening,  unexpectedly,  and  to  the 
joy  of  his  family,  Mr.  Freeman  was  per- 
fectly sober  when  he  came  home.  After 
tea,  while  Ady  and  Jane  were  standing  on 
either  side  of  him,  as  he  sat  near  tiieir 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  GOOD  AXGELS.         33 


mother,  an  arm  around  each  of  them,  he 
said,  in  a  low  whisper,  as  he  bent  his  head 
down  and  drew  them  closer — 

"  You  will  never  have  to  come  for  me 
again." 

The  children  lifted  their  eyes  quickly  to 
his  face,  but  half  understanding  what  he 
meant. 

"  I  will  never  go  there  again,"  he  added. 
"  I  will  always  stay  at  home  with  you." 

Ady  and  Jane,  now  comprehending  what 
their  father  meant,  overcome  with  joy,  hid 
their  faces  in  his  lap  and  wept  for  very 
gladness. 

Low  as  all  this  had  been  said,  every 
word  reached  the  mother's  ear ;  and  while 
her  heart  yet  stood  trembling  between  hope 
and  fear,  Mr.  Freeman  drew  a  paper  from 
his  pocket  and  threw  it  on  the  table  by 
which  she  was  sitting.  She  opened  it 
hastily.  It  was  a  pledge,  with  his  well- 
known  signature  subscribed  at  the  bot- 
tom. 

With  a  cry  of  joy  she  sprang  to  his  side, 


34  THE    DRUNKARD'S    GOOD   ANGELS. 


and  his  arms  encircled  his  wife  as  well  as 
his  little  ones,  in  a  fonder  embrace  than 
they  had  known  for  years. 

The  children's  love  had  saved  their 
father.  They  were,  indeed,  his  good 
angels. 


1  A  N  0  C  E  N  0  ii. 


(9) 


GOOD  AND  EVIL  ANIMALS. 


are  in  the  world  a  great  many 
"*•  animals,  and  all  of  them  correspond  to 
good  or  evil  qualities  in  men.  The  good 
animals  are  innocent  and  useful;  but  the 
evil  animals  are  cruel  and  hurtful.  Sheep, 
and  cows,  and  doves  are  good  animals;  but 
wolves,  and  bears,  and  hawks  are  evil 
animals.  Every  one  loves  the  gentle 
lambs  that  sport  in  the  green  fields,  but 
no  one  likes  the  cruel  wolves  that  tear 
these  dear  lambs  in  pieces. 

In  the  picture  you  will  see  a  flock  of 
sheep,  with  some  children  and  their  mo- 


38  GOOD   AND   EVIL   ANIMALS. 


ther  gazing  at  them.  How  gentle,  and 
innocent,  and  mild  they  look !  They  are 
safe  in  the  fold  where  no  wicked  beasts  can 
harm  them.  Sometimes  a  sheep  or  a  lamb 
will  stra}7  from  the  fold,  and  then  the  good 
shepherd  will  go  off  into  the  woods  and 
mountains  to  seek  the  lost  one ;  and  when 
he  has  found  him,  he  will,  if  it  be  a  poor 
little  lamb,  take  him  in  his  arms  and  carry 
him  back  again;  or,  if  a  sheep,  lead  him 
kindly  to  the  fold  from  wThich  he  had 
strayed  away. 

Do  you  know,  dear  children,  who  is  your 
good  Shepherd?  He  is  the  Lord,  and  he 
is  ever  watching  over  you,  and  seeking  to 
protect  you  from  the  wolves. 

You  think  there  are  no  wolves  to  harm 
you !  All  evil  tempers  and  bad  passions, 
my  children,  are  wolves ;  and  these,  if  you 
let  them  come  into  your  hearts,  will  greatly 
harm,  and,  perhaps,  in  the  end,  destroy 
you.  You  stray  from  this  good  Shepherd 
when  you  indulge  in  wicked  tempers,  or 
do  wicked  things;  and  you  are  then  in 


GOOD   AND    EVIL   ANIMALS.  39 


great  danger  from  the  wolves.  Keep 
within  the  sheep-fold,  dear  little  ones, 
and  your  good  Shepherd  will  ever  be  near 
to  save  you  from  all  harm.  When  you  love 
each  other,  and  seek  to  make  each  other 
happy;  when  you  are  obedient  to  your 
parents  and  teachers;  then  are  you  within 
the  heavenly  sheepfold;  then  are  you  safe 
from  the  wolves. 


THE  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 


T^RANK  HARROLD,  when  lie  was  about 
-*-  twelve  years  old,  got  acquainted  with 
some  bad  boys  of  his  own  age.  Before  this 
Frank  was  a  very  good  lad,  and  gave  his 
mother  no  trouble.  Mrs.  Harrold  was  a 
very  pious  woman,  and  early  taught  her 
son  that  there  was  a  God  in  heaven,  who 
was  to  be  loved  and  worshipped  by  living 
in  obedience  to  his  commands,  which  were 
written  in  the  Bible.  As  soon  as  he  could 
speak  he  was  taught  to  say  his  prayers  on 
going  to  bed ;  and  when  he  had  learned  to 
read,  the  Holy  Book  was  oftener  in  his 
hands  than  any  other.  Mrs.  Harrold  had 
great  comfort  of  mind  in  thinking  about 


THE  MOTHER'S  GRATE.  41 


her  boy ;  for  there  was  every  promise  of 
his  growing  up  to  be  a  good  and  useful 
man.  He  was  obedient  to  her  in  all  things, 
and  kind  to  his  playmates;  and  never 
seemed  so  happy  as  when  he  could  oblige 
some  one.  v 

But,  as  we  have  said,  when  Frank  was 
about  twelve  years  old,  he  got  into  the 
company  of  bad  boys,  who  enticed  him 
away  into  evil.  It  was  sad  to  see  the 
change  that  soon  passed  over  him.  He 
learned  to  use  bad  language :  that  is,  low, 
obsceie,  and  profane  language;  such  as 
may  be  heard  from  the  gangs  of  vicious 
boys,  to  be  seen  congregated  at  particular 
times,  in  all  our  towns  or  large  cities. 
From  being  kind  to  others,  he  soon  learned, 
to  feel  pleasure  in  giving  pain  through 
direct  personal  injury,  by  ridicule,  or  by 
wounding  the  feelings  of  those  weaker 
than  himself. 

Alas!   how   quickly  do  the   angels   go 
away  from  us,  when,  by  our  evil  thoughts  % 
and  acts,  we  associate  our  minds  with  evil 


42  THE  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 


spirits,  who  ever  stand  waiting  to  flow  in 
upon  us  and  rule  our  lives.  If  we  would 
keep  out  these  enemies,  we  must  keep  our 
thoughts  pure,  and  guard  our  lips  as  we 
would  guard  a  precious  treasure  in  a  golden 
casket.  Bad  language  does  not  correspond 
to  any  thing  in  heaven ;  it  only  corresponds 
to  something  evil  in  hell.  When  a  boy, 
therefore,  swears,  or  uses  any  kind  of  ob- 
scene or  bad  language,  the  evil  spirits  who 
are  always  trying  to  enter  his  mind,  per- 
ceive something  that  is  congenial  to  them- 
selves, and  come  in.  Immediately  o4  this 
occurring,  the  good  angels,  who  cannot 
occupy  the  same  habitation  with  evil 
spirits,  retire,  and  then  the  boy  is  more 
under  the  influence  of  evil  than  of  good. 
The  only  way  to  cast  them  out  again,  and 
bring  back  those  other  and  better  com- 
panions, is  to  refrain  from  evil  speaking 
of  any  kind,  and  also  to  push  away  evil 
thoughts,  when  the  angels  will  return  and 
fill  the  mind  with  their  own  pure  thoughts 
and  peaceful  feelings.  It  is  the  same  when 


THE  MOTHER'S  GRAVE.  43 


a  boy  gets  angry  with  his  companions,  or 
when  he  permits  himself  to  have  covetous 
thoughts,  or  tells  a  lie,  or  does  or  thinks 
any  thing  that  is  evil.  The  moment  this 
takes  place,  there  is  a  change.  Evil  spirits 
perceive  their  own,  and  flow  into  it,  while 
the  good  angels  are  cast  out.  Only  in  what 
is  good  in  the  mind,  can  the  latter  abide ; 
and  when  good  is  removed,  they  must  go 
with  it. 

If  this  is  understood  by  the  thoughtful 
young  reader,  he  will  see  how  important  it 
is  fo»  him  to  watch  over  his  temper  and 
guard  his  lips.  Let  him  not,  as  he  values 
his  best  interests,  give  way  to  any  wrong 
desire,  indulge  in  any  bad  temper,  or  use 
any  but  pure  and  innocent  language.  If 
he  so  watch  over  his  thoughts,  words,  and 
actions,  and  look  for  help  from  above,  he 
need  be  in  no  fear  of  evil,  for  it  cannot 
reach  him. 

But  Frank  Harrold  did  not  thus  guard 
himself.  He  thought,  when  he  heard  boys 
of  his  own  age  swear,  and  saw  them  smoke 


44  THE  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 


disgusting  cigars,  and  drink  drams,  that  all 
this  was  manly.  At  first,  he  felt  such  an 
inward  reluctance — such  a  painful  drawing 
back — when  he  made  an  attempt  to  swear, 
in  imitation  of  his  bad  companions,  that  he 
could  not  utter  the  word  that  was  in  his 
thoughts.  But,  after  a  while,  he  forced 
out  a  wicked  oath ;  and  then  it  all  came 
easy  enough.  Swearing  led  to  other  and 
worse  vices;  and  so  the  feet  of  the  poor 
lad,  having  once  entered  an  evil  way, 
began  to  move  in  it  swiftly. 

Mrs.  Harrold  was  deeply  distressed  at 
this  sad  change  in  her  boy,  and  did  every 
thing  in  her  power  to  win  him  away  from 
his  dangerous  companions.  But  their 
power  over  him  was  so  great,  that  all  she 
said  made  little  or  no  impression  upon  his 
mind.  At  last,  when  she  talked  to  him, 
he  would  get  angry,  and  speak  unkindly 
to  his  good  mother ;  and  even  though  tears 
would  come  into  her  eyes  when  he  did  so, 
not  the  least  movement  of  repentance  or 
pity  was  in  his  heart. 


THE  MOTHER'S  GRAVE.  45 


And  so  it  went  on.  The  lad  grew  worse 
and  worse;  and,  when  he  was  eighteen 
years  old,  had  become  so  debased  in  his 
conduct,  and  so  idle  in  his  habits,  that  no 
one  would  have  him  in  his  employ.  About 
this  time  a  recruiting-sergeant  came  into 
the  town,  and  Frank,  when  half  intoxi- 
cated, was  induced  to  enlist  as  a  soldier  for 
a  term  of  five  years.  He  felt  bad  enough 
when  he  became  fully  sober,  and  reflected 
upon  what  he  had  done.  But  repentance 
was  now  too  late.  As  for  his  mother,  she 
was  almost  heart-broken. 

In  a  few  weeks,  Frank  was  sent  off  to 
the  frontier,  among  the  Indians,  where,  for 
five  years,  he  endured  various  hardships, 
and  lived  among  people  of  the  worst  class. 
As  a  common  soldier,  he  was  tyrannized 
over  by  petty  officers,  and  made  to  suffer 
indignities  and  degradation  worse  than  is 
endured  by  many  slaves  at  the  South. 
And  for  all  this,  his  pay  was  no  more  than 
the  hired  domestic  in  his  mother's  house 
had  regularly  received.  Once  he  was 


46  THE  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 


thrown  from  a  horse,  while  riding  in  a 
troop  over  a  prairie,  and  had  his  leg  broken ; 
once  he  was  shot  in  the  knee  by  an 
Indian;  and  the  wound,  from  which  he 
suffered  dreadful  pain,  kept  him  in  the 
hospital  attached  to  the  barracks  for  two 
or  three  months.  Exposed  in  all  weathers, 
in  a  sickly  region,  he  was  frequently  ill 
with  raging  fevers.  But,  when  bowed  in 
pain  and  sickness,  there  was  no  gentle 
mother's  hand  to  make  smooth  his  pil- 
low, and  no  mother's  voice  to  speak 
loving  words  in  his  ears.  The  hospital 
nurse  was  a  rough  soldier,  and  the  physi- 
cian of  the  regiment  a  cruel  tyrant,  who 
could  safely  exercise  his  overbearing  spirit 
on  poor  sick  dragoons,  that  dared  not  re- 
sent his  outrages  and  indignities.  Ah !  it 
was  all  very  different  from  what  it  would 
have  been,  had  Frank  grown  up  an  indus- 
trious, obedient,  and  good  boy.  Thus  it  is, 
that  evil  ever  brings  its  own  punishment. 
Frank,  while  lying  sick,  used  to  think  of 


THE  MOTHER'S  GRAVE.  47 


all  this ;  and  such  thoughts  always  made 
his  heart  ache. 

A  year  before  the  soldier's  term  of  ser- 
vice expired,  news  came  to  him  that  his 
mother  was  dead.  Oh !  how  he  wept  over 
this  sad  intelligence.  How  bitterly  he  re- 
pented of  the  evil  into  which  he  had  fallen; 
and  by  which  not  only  his  own  life,  but 
that  of  his  excellent  mother,  had  been 
rendered  miserable ! 

"  I  have  killed  her !"  he  murmured,  as 
his  eyes  grew  dim,  and  he  could  not  see 
the  lines  of  writing  in  the  letter  that  con- 
veyed the  afflicting  news.  From  the  day 
Frank  received  this  letter,  until  his  term 
of  service  expired,  no  one  saw  him  smile. 
On  receiving  his  discharge,  he  returned,  as 
quickly  as  he  could  come,  to  his  native 
village.  But  he  did  not  go  among  the 
people,  nor  seek  out  old  friends,  nor  search 
for  employment.  He  went  to  the  grave- 
yard, where,  by  the  side  of  the  green 
mound  of  earth  that  had  covered  for  many 
years  the  mouldering  ashes  of  his  father, 


48  THE  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 


he  found  that  another  had  been  buried — • 
and  knew  the  fresh-made  grave  as  the  one 
which  contained  the  earthly  remains  of  his 
mother.  For  hours  he  sat  here  and  wept. 
Then  he  went  from  the  little  enclosure, 
feeling,  as  he  did  so,  that  he  was  an  out- 
cast in  the  world.  Despairing  thoughts 
began  to  arise,  and  evil  suggestions  were 
flowing  into  his  mind.  But,  amid  these, 
arose  the  image  of  his  mother ;  and  then 
his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  time  when, 
a  little  child,  he  knelt  beside  her,  and 
prayed  that  he  might  not  be  led  into 
temptation.  So  softened  were  his  feelings, 
that,  sinking  upon  his  knee,  he  clasped  his 
hands,  and  prayed  aloud,  as  his  heart  went 
upward — 

"  Lead  me  not  into  temptation !" 
And  as  he  did  so,  there  came  a  light 
into  his  heart,  and  a  good  purpose  formed 
in  his  mind. 

"  I  have  had  enough  of  this  evil  life,"  he 
said;  "it  brings  nothing  but  suffering. 
Dear  mother  in  heaven!  draw  near  thy 


THE  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 


unliappy  child !  Be  to  him  a  good  angel, 
as  thou  wert  in  the  early  days  of  childhood 
and  innocence." 

After  saying  this,  the  young  man  arose, 
and  returning  to  the  grave  of  his  mother, 
sat  there  again  and  wept.  But  the  shadows 
of  evening,  that  soon  began  to  fall,  warned 
him  that  he  must  retire ;  and  then  he  went 
away,  firm  in  his  purpose  to  lead  a  new 
life. 

Glad  are  we  to  say,  that  this  good  pur. 
pose  was  never  broken,  and  that  Frank 
Harrold  is  now  a  sober,  industrious  young 
man ;  engaged  in  useful  employments,  and 
as  happy  as  could  be  expected  for  one  who 
must  have  so  many  painful  memories. 

Dear  children!  Give  not  a  moment's 
place  to  evil  in  your  minds ;  for  evil  is  a 
cruel  tyrant,  and  leads  into  the  worst 
slavery,  and.  the  most  direful  sufferings, 
all  who  give  themselves  up  to  its  influence. 
Only  the  good  are  happy. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  LITTLE. 
LAMB. 


ET  a  book  and  read  me  a  pretty 
story/'  said  little  Anna  to  her  sister 
Jane. 

"  Shall  I  read  to  you  about  the  lamb 
that  was  lost,  and  came  near  dying  ?" 

"And  heard  the  tinkling  of  a  distant 
sheep-bell  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh  yes,  sister  Jane,  read  me  that 
pretty  story.  I  love  to  hear  it." 

So  Jane  took  up  a  book  in  which  the 
story  was  printed,  and  read  to  Anna  about 
the  little  lamb. 

"  It  was  on  a  soft  morning  in  May,  when 
a  certain  little  lamb  was  called  from  sleep 


THE    STORY    OF   A   LITTLE   LAMB.  51 


by  the  tinkling  of  the  sheep-bell.  Slowly 
he  raised  his  head,  still  keeping  his  fore- 
feet bent  under  his  bosom,  and  looked  with 
a  sleepy  eye  after  his  mother,  who  had 
just  trotted  away  from  his  side.  Again 
the  bell  sounded,  and  the  pretty  little 
lamb  rose  upon  his  feet,  and  was  soon 
leaping  by  his  mother's  side.  Now,  the 
field  in  which  these  sheep  dwelt  was  a 
place  of  great  beauty;  the  verdant  hill, 
the  sparkling  streamlet,  the  shady  tree, 
the  green  pasture,  were  all  there ;  it  seemed 
a  quiet  fold  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  world 
— a  pleasant  place  on  purpose  for  that 
happy  little  flock.  Now,  the  little  lamb 
of  which  I  have  been  speaking  was  the 
darling  of  the  flock ;  no  other  had  so  white 
a  fleece,  so  mild  an  eye,  so  gentle  a  nature. 
One  day,  as  this  little  lamb  was  playing  by 
himself,  at  a  short  distance  from  the  fold, 
he  was  espied  by  an  eagle,  who  no  sooner 
beheld  him  than  he  darted  clown,  and, 
seizing  him  in  his  talons,  bore  him  far 
awav  from  the  little  flock.  Oh !  it  was  sad 


52  THE   STORY   OF  A  LITTLE   LAMB. 


to  see  the  sheep  look  after  their  darling 
lamb ;  and  the  poor  little  lamb  once  caught 
the  distant  tinkling  of  the  sweet  bell  it  had 
BO  loved  to  follow.  Now,  as  the  eagle  was 
flying  over  a  valley,  an  archer  shot  an 
arrow  which  went  into  its  heart,  and  it  fell 
with  the  lamb  at  the  archer's  feet.  Then 
the  archer  took  the  lamb  home  to  his  child, 
and  bade  him  take  care  of  the  poor  little 
creature.  Now  the  child  had  a  tender 
heart,  and  he  took  the  lamb,  and  bathed  its 
wounds,  and  washed  the  blood  from  its 
snowy  fleece,  and  wept.  But  the  lamb 
began  to  revive,  and  the  child  was  glad; 
and  he  took  a  silken  cord  and  placed  it 
about  his  neck,  and  led  the  lamb  about 
with  him  wherever  he  went ;  and  in  the 
joy  of  his  heart  he  thought  the  lamb  must 
be  as  happy  as  himself.  But  it  pined  for 
the  loss  of  its  mother's  love,  and  the  peace 
it  had  known  amid  the  happy  little  flock 
in  the  far-off  fold.  One  summer  day,  the 
child,  being  weary  with  long  rambling,  fell 
asleep  on  a  bank  of  flowers,  still  holding 


THE    STORY   OF   A   LITTLE   LAMB.  53 


the  silken  cord  tightly  in  his  hand ;  but 
looser  and  looser  it  became,  till  it  slipped 
away  from  his  grasp,  and  the  little  lamb 
fled  away  from  him  for  ever. 

"Onward  and  onward  went  the  lamb, 
not  knowing  whither.  After  a  time  it 
began  to  rain,  and  the  thunder  rolled 
and  the  lightning  flashed.  The  poor  little 
lamb  trembled ;  but  when  the  thunder  was 
not  heard  for  a  moment,  he  forgot  his 
sorrows,  and  stopped  to  nibble  a  daisy; 
then,  startled  by  a  sudden  flash,  he  looked 
up  in  terror,  and  was  again  driven  onward 
by  the  loud-pealing  thunder.  On  he  went, 
over  a  wide  common,  till  he  came  to  the 
foot  of  a  steep  hill,  which,  with  weary  feet, 
he  climbed;  but  when  he  had  gained  the 
summit,  weak  and  trembling,  he  laid  down 
to  die ;  his  eyes  became  dim,  and  his  heart 
beat  faintly  in  his  bosom  :  but  the  thought 
of  his  mother  and  the  peaceful  fold,  the 
sweet  flowers,  and  all  things  he  had  loved 
in  the  first  happy  moments  of  his  little  life 


54  THE    STORY  OF  A    LITTLE    LAMB. 


were  present  to  his  eye :  and  the  poor  lamb 
closed  his  eyes  in  sorrow. 

"  But  as  his  heart  grew  more  faint,  he 
was  startled  by  the  tinkling  of  a  distant 
bell ;  and  slowly  raising  his  head,  he  beheld 
his  own  little  flock  in  their  own  happy 
fold ;  and  new  life  awoke  in  his  heart,  and 
new  light  shone  from  his  eyes,  and  new 
strength  came  to  his  feet,  and  in  a  moment 
more  the  lost  lamb  was  by  his  mother's  side, 
telling  how  he  had  been  called  back  to  life 
by  the  tinkling  of  that  sweet  sheep-bell." 


THE  YOUNG  TBACHEE. 


"  T  WISH  I  knew  how  to  read!"  said  one 
little  boy  to  another. 

"  Then  why  don't  you  learn  ?"  asked  his 
companion. 

"Because  I  have  no  one  to  teach  me, 
and  my  mother  is  too  poor  to  send  me  to 
school,"  replied  the  boy. 

The  name  of  the  little  boy  who  could 
read  was  Albert  Parker,  and  the  name  of 
the  one  who  could  not  read  was  Henry 
Morrison. 

"I  think  I  could  teach  you/'  said 
Albert. 


56  THE   YOUXG    TEACHER. 


"  Do  you  ?  Oh,  I  wish  you  would  try, 
for  I  want  to  learn  to  read  very  much." 

The  earnestness  with  which  Henry  spoke 
made  Albert  resolve  that  he  would  at  least 
try,  although,  as  he  was  but  a  small  boy, 
and  had  only  just  learned  to  read  himself, 
he  did  not  feel  certain  that  he  could  teach 
Henry;  but,  then,  he  determined  in  his 
own  mind;  young  as  he  was,  that  he  would 
make  the  trial. 

"Do  you  know  your  A,  B,  C's?"  asked 
Albert. 

"  Oh  yes.     I  can  say  them  all  through." 

"  Will  you  come  into  our  house  now,  and 
try  to  learn?  I  have  got  all  my  books 
there." 

Of  course  Henry  consented,  and  the  twa 
boys  went  into  the  house,  and  sat  down  on 
two  little  chairs,  that  Albert's  mother  gave 
them  to  sit  on,  when  she  learned  her  son's 
kind  intentions.  She  felt  very  glad  to  see 
him,  so  early  in  life,  in  the  effort  to  do  good; 
for  she  was  a  woman  who  loved  the  Lord 
and  her  neighbour,  and  had  taught  her 


THE   YOUXG    TEACHER.  57 


boy  that  it  was  right  for  him  to  try  and  do 
the  same.  She  looked  on  and  listened, 
with  a  heart  full  of  pleasure,  to  the  young 
teacher  and  his  pupil. 

Albert.  You  know  all  your  A,  B,  C's? 

Henry.  Yes ;  I  know  every  one  of  them. 

A.  Then  you  must  learn  your  A-b  ab's 
next. 

E.  Well,  where  are  they  ? 

A.  (Turning  over  the  leaves  of  one  of 
his  little  books.)  Here  they  are.  Now 
begin.  What  letter  is  that  ? 

E.  A. 

A.  And  the  little  one  alongside  of  it? 

E.  B. 

A.  Well;  A-b  spells  ab.  Now  what  let- 
ter is  that  ? 

H.  E. 

A.  And  the  little  one? 

E.  B. 

A.  That  spells  eb.  And  this  i-b  ib,  o-b 
ob,  and  u-b  ub.  Now  try  and  see  if  you 
can  say  the  whole  line  ? 

E.  A-b— 


58  THE   YOUNG   TEACHER. 


A.  Ab. 

H.  Oh  yes;  A-b  ab,  e-b  eb,  i-b  ib,  o-b  ob, 
u-b  ub. 

A.  Yes;  that  is  all  right.  Why,  how 
fast  you  learn !  Now  go  over  it  again. 

And  Henry  commenced  the  lesson  and 
went  all  through  it,  without  missing  a 
single  one  of  the  little  words.  Then  Al- 
bert tried  him  in  his  B-a  ba's,  and  soon  he 
could  say  all  of  these.  For  an  hour  the 
little  boys  were  all  intent,  the  one  in  teach- 
ing and  the  other  in  learning.  At  the  end 
of  this  time,  Henry  could  give  the  true 
sound  of  all  the  words  of  two  letters  in  the 
primer. 

Albert's  mother  had  been  attentive  to 
all  that  passed,  as  she  sat  engaged  in  sew- 
ing, and  when  the  little  boys  laid  aside 
their  book,  she  said — 

"  You  must  come  here  every  day,  Henry, 
and  let  Albert  teach  you  to  read." 

Henry  promised  that  he  would  come, 
and  then  the  little  boys  went  out  and 


THE   YOUNG   TEACHER.  59 


played  until  it  was  time  for  Henry  to  go 
home. 

On  the  next  day,  after  Albert  had  re- 
turned from  school,  Henry  Morrison  came 
again,  and  took  another  lesson.  And  so  he 
continued  coming  every  day.  At  the  end 
of  a  week  he  could  spell  out  some  of  the 
easy  lines  that  were  in  the  first  reading- 
book,  such  as — 

"My  son,  go  not  in  the  way  of  bad 
men." 

Now  Albert's  father,  when  he  saw  that 
Henry  Morrison  was  so  eager  to  learn, 
thought  within  himself  that  he  would 
send  him  to  school.  So,  after  he  had  been 
to  see,  and  had  talked  with  his  mother, 
who  promised  to  keep  him  always  clean, 
and  his  clothes  neatly  mended,  he  entered 
him  at  the  same  school  to  which  his  own 
son  went. 

The  reason  why  Mr.  Parker  was  willing 
to  place  Henry  at  the  same  school  to  which 
his  own  son  was  going,  was  because  he 
saw  that  Henry  was  a  good  boy;  that  he 


60  THE   YOUXG    TEACHER. 


never  said  bad  words,  nor  had  any  bad 
habits.  He  was  not,  therefore,  afraid  to 
let  his  own  son  be  in  company  with  him. 

You  may  suppose  that  Henry  Morrison 
learned  very  fast  at  school.  And  so  he 
did.  In  a  few  months  he  caught  up  to 
•Albert  and  soon  went  rapidly  past  him. 
But  it  is  pleasing  to  be  able  to  say,  that 
Albert  Parker  had  not  a  single  unkind  or 
envious  feeling  toward  Henry  on  this 
account,  but  was,  on  the  contrary,  exceed- 
ingly pleased. 

"  How  is  it,  Albert,"  his  father  said  to 
him  one  day,  "  that  Henry  learns  so  much 
faster  than  you  do  ?" 

Albert  thought,  at  first,  that  this  ques- 
tion was  meant  for  a  rebuke,  but  when  he 
looked  up  into  his  father's  face,  he  saw 
that  it  was  not. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  father,"  he 
answered,  "but  he  can  and  does  learn 
faster  than  I  can,  and  I  am  glad  of  it." 

"  Glad  of  it,  Albert !     And  why  so  ?" 

"Why,  you   know,  father,  that  Henry 


THE   YOUXG   TEACHER.  61 


can't  go  to  school  as  long  as  I  can,  and  so 
he  ought  to  learn  a  great  deal  faster.  I 
shall  be  learning  on  still  when  he  has  to  be 
put  out  to  a  trade,  to  get  his  own  living." 

"And  so  you  do  not  envy  him,  because 
he  learns  so  much  faster  than  you  do  ?" 

"Oh  no,  father;  why  should  I?  It  would, 
be  wicked  in  me,  would  it  not  ?" 

"  Certainly,  my  son.  And  I  am  glad  to 
hear  you  say  that  you  are  pleased  to  see 
your  little  friend  learn  faster  than  you  can. 
Still,  you  must  try  your  best." 

"And  so  I  do,  father.  And  I  learn  as 
fast  as  any  boy  in  my  class.  But  the 
schoolmaster  says  that  Henry  is  the  fastest 
boy  in  the  whole  school." 

For  three  years  Mr.  Parker  continued  to 
send  Henry  to  school,  after  which  it  became 
necessary  for  him  to  go  out  to  a  trade,  as 
his  poor  mother  could  not  support  him  any 
longer.  When  he  left  the  school,  he  was 
far  in  advance  of  all  the  other  scholars,  and 
his  desire  to  learn  was  still  greater  than  it 
had  ever  been. 


62  THE   YOUXG   TEACHER. 


He  felt  very  grateful  to  Mr.  Parker,  and, 
before  he  went  to  his  trade,  came  and 
thanked  him  for  his  great  kindness  to  him. 
While  the  poor  boy  thus  expressed  his 
gratitude,  Mr.  Parker  felt  doubly  repaid  for 
all  he  had  done. 

"You  are  now  far  in  advance,  Henry, 
of  most  boys  when  they  go  to  a  trade," 
said  he,  "  and  if  you  will  only  employ  your 
spare  time  in  improving  yourself,  you  may 
rise  high  in  the  world,  and  be  very  useful 
when  you  grow  up  to  be  a  man.  Some  of 
the  best  and  greatest  men  in  the  country, 
when  boys,  were  poor  like  you,  and  had  to 
work  at  trades.  Persevere,  then,  as  they 
did,  and  you  will  rise  as  high.  But  above 
all,  Henry,  ever  remember  that  you  are  in 
the  presence  of  the  good  and  holy  Lord, 
who  cannot  look  upon  sin  with  the  least 
degree  of  allowance.  Let  His  command- 
ments be  ever  before  you.  Do  not  break 
the  least  one  of  them  wilfully ;  for,  if  you 
do,  unhappiness  will  surely  follow.  And 
now,  my  boy,"  his  kind  benefactor  added 


THE    YOUNG   TEACHER.  63 


fervently,  "  may  our  Heavenly  Father  ever 
have  you  in  his  holy  keeping." 

Throughout  his  whole  life  Henry  Mor- 
rison did  not  forget  the  impression  of  that 
moment.  As  an  apprentice,  instead  of 
wasting,  as  too  many  boys  do,  their  leisure 
time  in  idleness,  his  books  were  always  re- 
sorted to,  and  some  information  gained  at 
every  spare  moment.  Still,  he  was  careful 
never  to  neglect  his  work,  nor  to  hurry 
through  it  so  as. not  to  do  it  well.  This  his 
master,  who  was  a  kind  man,  saw,  and  he 
therefore  took  pleasure  in  seeing  him  at 
his  books,  when  his  work  was  done. 

Albert  continued  to  be  the  friend  of 
Henry.  They  met  every  Sabbath  at  the 
Sunday-school,  and  frequently  the  latter 
would  go  home  and  spend  the  evening  in 
Mr.  Barker's  family. 

Thus  he  continued  to  improve  his  mind, 
until  he  arrived  at  the  age  of  manhood, 
when,  his  mother  having  died  several  years 
before,  he  removed  many  hundred  miles 
away  from  his  native  place. 


64  THE   YOUNG   TEACHER. 


It  was  about  ten  years  afterward  that 
Albert  Parker  was  travelling  in  the  West, 
and  stopped  a  few  days  at  Louisville, 
Kentucky. 

He  attended  church  on  the  Sabbath-day, 
as  was  his  custom,  whether  at  home  or 
abroad;  for  the  pious  instructions  received 
in  early  life  had  been  like  good  seed  sown 
upon  good  ground. 

When  the  minister  arose  in  the  pulpit, 
there  seemed  to  Albert  something  strangely 
familiar  in  his  face  and  form;  but  when 
he  spoke,  his  voice  sounded  like  that  of  an 
old  friend. 

"Surely  I  have  seen  him  before,"  said 
he,  as  he  looked  at  him  earnestly,  and 
tried  to  remember  where  and  when  he  had 
met  with  him.  But  he  could  recall  neither 
the  time,  the  place,  nor  the  circumstance. 

He  listened  to  the  sermon  with  the 
deepest  attention.  It  was  full  of  true  and 
beautiful  thoughts,  and  the  style  and  lan- 
guage were  eloquent  and  imposing.  His 
text  was — 


THE  YOUXG  TEACHER.  65 


«  Cast  thy  bread  upon  the  waters:  for 
thou  shalt  find  it  after  many  days!' — 
Eccles.  xi.  1. 

In  closing,  he  said — "  I  will  give  you  a 
practical  illustration  of  what  I  have  been 
trying  to  impress  upon  your  minds.  Two 
little  boys,  about  ten  years  of  age,  were 
playing  together.  One  of  them  was  a  poor 
boy,  and  could  not  read.  Young  as  he 
was,  he  felt  an  anxious  desire  to  learn  like 
other  boys,  but  his  mother  was  poor,  and 
could  not  send  him  to  school.  c  I  wish  I 
could  read !'  said  he,  to  his  companion. 
'  Then  why  don't  you  learn  ?'  asked  the 
other  little  boy ;  and  he  replied,  <  Because 
I  have  no  one  to  teach  me,  and  my  mother 
is  too  poor  to  send  me  to  school/  Then  the 
boy  who  could  read  said,  that  '  he  thought 
he  could  teach  him,  and  if  the  other  were 
willing  he  would  try.'  Of  course  he  was 
willing,  and  the  two  little  boys  sat  down 
together,  one  as  teacher  and  the  other  as 
scholar,  and  while  the  one  endeavoured  to 
impart  the  little  that  he  had  learned,  the 


66  THE   YOUNG   TEACHER. 


other  tried  as  hard  to  receive  what  his 
young  friend  so  earnestly  endeavoured  to 
give.  And  in  this  way  the  poor  boy 
learned  to  read.  The  father  of  his  little 
friend,  on  seeing  him  so  anxious  to  learn, 
sent  him  to  school  for  three  years.  That 
poor  boy,  in  the  providence  of  the  Lord,  is 
now  your  minister.  His  kind  teacher  he 
has  neither  seen  nor  heard  from  for  many 
years,  but  he  yet  hopes  to  meet  him.  The 
bread  cast,  more  than  twenty  years  ago, 
upon  the  waters,  he  will  yet  find." 

As  soon  as  the  minister  began  to  speak 
of  that  early  scene,  the  countenance  of 
Henry  Morrison  grew  at  once  familiar  to 
Albert  Parker.  Their  meeting  after  service 
was  indeed  a  joyful  one.  Tears  moistened 
their  eyes,  as  they  grasped  each  other's 
hands  and  uttered  their  heartfelt  expres- 
sions of  delight. 

Years  have  passed  since  that  pleasant 
interview,  and  both  are  now  ministers, 
eminent  for  talents  and  usefulness. 


A   CONVERSATION. 


sister  was  ill,  and  you  were 
so  sorry,  mother,  why  did  you  not 
pray  to  God? — would  he  not  have  made 
her  well?" 

"  Perhaps  not,  my  child." 

"Why,  mother,  would  not  God  have 
heard  your  prayer  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  he  might  not  have  seen  fit  to 
grant  such  a  prayer,  if  I  had  been  disposed 
to  make  it." 

"  If  you  had  been  disposed  to  make  it ! 
Mother,  did  you  not  wish  that  sister  might 
get  well  ?" 

"  Certainly  I  wished  it;  but  I  wish  still 
more  that  what  God  sees  will  be  best  for 


70  A   CONVERSATION. 


me,  and  for  those  I  love,  may  happen, — be- 
cause I  know  that  God  is  ever  striving  to 
do  us  every  possible  good,  and  he  might 
have  known  that  it  would  not  have  been 
either  for  my  real  good,  or  your  sister's,  to 
grant  such  a  prayer.  Why  did  I  not  give 
you  the  cake  which  you  wished  for  yester- 
day?" 

"Because  you  thought  it  would  make 
me  sick." 

"And  yet  you  wished  very  much  for  the 
cake.  And  you  know  that  I  love  you,  and 
would  like  to  grant  you  any  enjoyment  that 
is  good  for  you ;  but  you  do  not  know  so  well 
as  I  do,  that  to  grant  some  of  your  wishes 
would  be  hurtful  to  you.  Now,  God  watches 
over  our  spiritual  health  and  happiness, 
with  far  more  love  and  care  than  that  with 
which  the  tenderest  parents  watch  over 
their  children.  He  knows  and  grants  what 
he  sees  will  promote  these,  and  he  with- 
holds that  only  which  he  knows  would  do 
us  harm.  Remember,  then,  my  dear  little 
boy,  that  the  Lord  knows  what  is  good  for 


A   CONVERSATION.  71 


us,  and  is  always  ready  to  give  it.  Our 
prayers  are  needful,  therefore,  only  to  make 
us  feel  and  acknowledge  our  constant  de- 
pendence upon  him,  and  to  express  our 
grateful  sense  of  his  continual  goodness 
and  our  humble  submission  to  his  will." 


SPEAK    KINDLY. 


CHOUGH  intemperate,  and  at  times  idle, 
Mr.  Marker  had  not  wholly  given 
himself  up  to  the  evil  of  drinking.  He 
worked  pretty  regularly  at  his  trade,  and 
gave  the  greater  part  uf  his  earnings  to  his 
wife.  But  he  spent  at  least  a  dollar  and  a 
half  a  week  in  liquor,  and  sometimes  more. 
This  sum,  added  to  what  might  have  been 
earned  in  the  time  lost  in  consequence  of 
intemperate  habits,  shows  a  good  deal  of 
money  wasted,  which,  if  spent  in  his  fa- 
mily, would  have  given  them  many  com- 
forts. 

In  consequence  of  this,  poor  Mrs.  Marker 
had  to  work  harder  and  harder  every  day; 


SPEAK   KINDLY.  73 


and  yet  their  comforts  diminished  instead 
of  increasing.  Not  possessing  naturally 
much  evenness  of  temper,  nor  a  great  deal 
of  fortitude,  she  was,  at  times,  very  impa- 
tient and  fretful ;  and  she  became,  in  the 
end,  so  much  worried  by  her  husband's 
conduct,  that  she  hardly  ever  gave  him  a 
pleasant  word  when  he  was  in  the  house, 
and  was  often  the  cause  of  his  going  out 
and  spending  evenings  in  the  taverns  when 
he  felt  inclined  to  remain  at  home. 

Mary,  their  oldest  child,  was,  at  the  time 
of  which  we  are  writing,  just  eleven  years 
of  age.  She  loved  her  father  very  much, 
notwithstanding  his  evil  ways ;  and  it  often 
caused  her  to  go  off  by  herself  alone,  and 
cry,  when  angry  words  passed  between  him 
and  her  mother. 

One  evening,  Mr.  Marker  brought  a  book 
home  for  Mary,  which  was  received  by  her 
with  great  joy.  But  she  had  scarcely  taken 
it  in  her  hand,  before  her  mother  said 
fretfully— 

"What's  that?" 


74  SPEAK    KIXDLY. 


"  Its  a  book  that  papa  has  bought  me," 
replied  Mary,  holding  up  her  present. 

"He  must  have  plenty  of  money  to 
throw  away,"  said  the  mother  ill-naturedly, 
for  she  never  could  let  any  opportunity 
that  presented  itself  pass  without  saying 
something  that  was  unkind  to  her  hus- 
band. A  man  who  has  been  drinking  is 
never  entirely  rational;  and  as  Mr.  Marker 
had  poured  two  or  three  glasses  of  fiery  li-  • 
quid  down  his  throat,  he  was  not,  of  course, 
in  a  fit  state  for  reason  and  self-control. 
As  usual  on  such  occasions,  he  had  some- 
thing to  say  in  return,  and  one  remark  fol- 
lowed another,  until  there  was  a  Avar  of 
words.  So  soon  as  this  had  subsided,  the 
unhappy  family  went  to  supper,  but  none 
of  them  could  eat  with  any  relish.  After 
they  had  left  the  table,  Mr.  Marker,  in  sit- 
ting down  for  the  purpose  of  reading,  hap- 
pened to  say  something  that  his  wife 
thought  silly — and  men,  after  they  have 
been  drinking,  generally  talk  silly  enough 
— when  she  said  to  him — 


SPEAK    KINDLY.  75 


"  Do  hush,  will  you !  I  hate  to  hear  any 
one  talk  like  a  fool!" 

Mary  was  never  happier  than  when  her 
father  remained  at  home  during  the  even- 
ing ;  and  if  her  mother  had  taken  half  the 
pains  to  induce  him  to  do  so,  that  she  did, 
he  would  have  been  with  them  four  or  five 
evenings  every  week,  instead  of  in  the  grog- 
shop, as  was  generally  the  case.  v 

Poor  child !  How  sad  she  felt  when  she 
saw  her  father  throw  down  his  paper  and 
go  angrily  from  the  house. 

"  If  mother  would  only  be  kind  to  him," 
she  said  to  herself,  "  I  am  sure  he  would  do 
better." 

The  little  present  he  had  brought  her 
showed  the  affection  that  was  in  his  heart 
for  Mary,  debased  as  it  was,  and  the  child's 
feelings  were  affected  with  more  than  a 
usual  tenderness  by  the  token.  The  stroke 
of  a  lash  upon  her  back  could  not  have 
hurt  her  half  so  much  as  did  the  angry 
words  uttered  by  her  mother,  and  when 
she  saw  their  effect  in  fairly  driving  her 


76  SPEAK    KINDLY. 


father  from  the  house,  she  could  not  refrain 
from  weeping.  The  book,  which  she  had 
hoped  to  enjoy  for  an  hour,  was  laid  away 
out  of  sight,  and  she  shrank  into  a  corner 
of  the  room  with  a  heavy  weight  of  grief  on 
her  young  heart.  All  her  thoughts  were 
with  her  father.  She  knew  where  he  had 
gone,  and  was,  alas  !  too  well  assured  that 
when  he  came  home  he  would  be  so  much 
intoxicated  as  scarcely  to  be  conscious  of 
any  thing. 

Mrs.  Marker  was  often  sorry  for  her  un- 
guarded and  ill-chosen  words,  after  she  saw 
the  effect  of  them.  It  was  so  on  this  occa- 
sion. Poor  woman !  how  heavily  did  she 
sigh  as  she  sat  down  with  her  sewing,  after 
having  put  the  supper  things  away.  The 
effect  of  her  words  had  been  too  marked 
not  to  leave  a  feeling  of  self-condemnation ; 
and  this  feeling  is,  perhaps,  of  all  others, 
most  painful  to  bear. 

Mr.  Marker  had  been  gone  only  a  few 
minutes,  when  Mary  arose  and  left  the 
room.  Upon  a  chair  in  the  passage  lay  an 


SPEAK    KINDLY.  77 


old  shawl,  which  she  threw  over  her 
head,  and  then  glided  noiselessly  from  the 
house. 

The  night  was  cold,  and  Mary  shivered 
when  the  heavy  air  first  struck  upon  her 
thinly-clad  form.  But  she  soon  forgot  the 
wintry  atmosphere  through  which  she  was 
passing.  A  few  blocks  away,  was  one  of 
those  man-traps,  called  refectories,  into 
which,  if  any  one  goes,  he  is  in  great  dan- 
ger of  being  ruined  both  in  body  and  soul. 
To  this  place  Mary  knew  that  her  father 
went  often,  and  thither  she  directed  her 
rapid  steps.  A  brilliant  gas-lamp  burned 
just  in  front,  of  the  refectory,  and  there 
was  a  beautiful  transparency  in  the  window. 
Without,  all  looked  attractive  ;  and  there 
was  a  promise  of  good  cheer  within  to 
tempt  the  unwary.  Before  the  door  Mary 
stood  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  entered, 
stealthily,  like  one  who  felt  that. Jier  pre- 
sence would  be  unwelcome. 

Mr.  Marker,  on  leaving  home,  felt  very 
much  fretted  in  his  temper.  Something  had 


78  SPEAK    KINDLY. 


occurred  during  the  day  to  cause  him  to 
reflect;  and  the  consequence  was,  that  he 
had  indulged  his  appetite  for  drink  less  fre- 
quently than  usual.  When  he  returned  to 
his  family  in  the  evening,  although  he  had 
been  drinking,  he  was  nearer  to  being  a 
sober  man  than  he  had  been  for  weeks. 
This,  unfortunately,  his  wife  did  not  per- 
ceive, and  her  harsh  language  came,  there- 
fore, upon  certain  good  resolutions,  like 
wind  upon  the  chaff,  and  -scattered  them  in 
the  air. 

On  going  from  the  house  in  a  passion, 
Mr.  Marker  went,  as  his  little  daughter  had 
supposed,  to  the  refectory.  On  entering, 
he  called  for  a  glass  of  ale,  and  taking  it  to 
a  table,  sat  down  with  a  newspaper  in  his 
hand.  After  taking  a  draught  of  the  liquor, 
he  commenced  reading.  But  he  found  little, 
if  any  thing,  to  interest  him.  His  mind 
was  disturbed ;  and  there  was  a  picture  in 
his  imagination,  that,  if  possible,  he  would 
have  shut  out — a  picture  of  home;  but  he 
could  not.  The  pleasure  that  lit  up  Mary's 


SPEAK    KINDLY.  79 


face,  when  lie  gave  her  the  book  he  had 
bought,  he  saw  instantly  fade  before  the 
unkindly  spoken  word  of  her  mother,  and 
with  a  certain  bitterness  of  feeling  he 
clenched  his  hands  uneasily  and  set  his 
teeth  tightly  together.  But,  even  while  he 
blamed  his  wife  for  her  fretful  temper, 
thoughts  of  his  own  evil  doings  and  their 
consequences  upon  his  family,  came  forcing" 
themselves  into  his  mind,  and  his  feelings 
smarted  under  the  self-accusations  of  his 
own  conscience.  He  had,  after  running  his 
eye  hurriedly  over  the  newspaper,  reading 
a  line  here  and  there,  but  not  perceiving 
any  meaning  in  what  he  read,  thrown  it 
down,  and  was  just  lifting  his  glass  to  take 
another  draught  of  ale,  when  he  saw  Mary 
enter  the  door  and  look  timidly  around. 
The  glass,  before  it  reached  his  lips,  was 
returned  to  the  table :  so  much  surprised 
was  he  at  the  appearance  of  his  child  in. 
such  a  place. 

It  was  a  moment  or  two  before  Mary  saw 
her  father ;  but  as  soon  as  her  eyes  rested 


80  SPEAK    KINDLY. 


upon  him,  she  went  quickly  over  to  where 
he  sat,  and  taking  hold  of  his  hand,  said, 
in  a  low  but  very  tender  voice — 

"Come,  papa!" 

Against  angry  words,  the  spirit  of  the 
man  had  instantly  rebelled ;  but  his  heart 
turned  toward  his  child  with  her  loving 
gentle  tones,  and,  as  if  led  by  an  angel  from 
amidst  a  company  of  evil  spirits,  he  arose 
and  followed  her  out  into  the  pure  cold  air. 

Still  holding  tightly  the  hand  of  her  fa- 
ther, Mary  moved  on  toward  their  home, 
and  he  walked  by  her  side  as  passively  as 
if  no  will  of  his  own  remained. 

When  they  reached  their  cheerless  dwell- 
ing, both  entered,  side  by  side.  Mrs.  Mar- 
ker, who,  until  that  moment,  was  not 
aware  that  Mary  had  left  the  house,  looked 
up  from  her  work  with  surprise.  She  was 
about  saying  something,  when  Mary  sprang 
toward  her  and  whispered  in  her  ear,  in  an 
earnest,  imploring  voice,  yet  so  distinctly, 
that  her  father  heard  her  words — "Oh, 
mamma — speak  kindly !" 


SPEAK    KINDLY.  ,81 


Mrs.  Marker's  form  drooped  over  her 
work,  as  if  nearly  all  strength  had  left  her. 
Her  face  bent  low  to  her  needle,  but  still, 
for  the  gathering  tears,  she  could  not  see. 
Her  husband  sat  down  at  a  short  distance 
from  her,  feeling  very  strange.  For  a  few 
minutes  all  was  silent.  Suddenly  Mrs. 
Marker  let  her  sewing  fall  from  her  hands, 
and  rising  up,  went  over  to  where  her  hus- 
band sat  with  his  eyes  upon  the  floor. 

"Edward,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  serious 
voice,  "  do  what  you  will,  I'll  never  speak 
unkindly  again." 

"  And  I'll  never  drink  another  drop !"  he 
replied  in  an  animated  voice,  springing  to 
his  feet. 

In  a  moment  they  were  in  each  other's 
arms,  and,  in  tears,  gave  pledges  for  a  new 
and  a  better  life. 

Oh !  it  was  a  joyful  time  for  Mary.  She 
scarcely  slept  that  night  for  thinking  of 
the  happy  days  that  were  to  come.  And 
she  has  not  been  disappointed.  Mr.  Mar- 
ker signed  the  temperance-pledge  on  the 


82  SPEAK    KINDLY. 


very  next  day,  and  faithfully  has  he  kept 
it  since.  Than  his,  few  happier  homes  are 
now  to  be  found;  and  no  one  in  that  house 
is  happier  than  Mary. 

Oh !  there  is  a  wonderful  power  in  kind 
words. 


I  CAN'T  DO  IT. 


"  T  CAN'T  do  it !"  said  Henry  Bradford, 
throwing  down  his  pen  and  dividers, 
and  exhibiting  other  signs  of  impatience. 

This  happened  at  school,  and  the  teacher's 
eyes  were  upon  Henry  at  the  time,  although 
the  boy  did  not  know  it. 

•"Can't  do  what,  Henry?"  asked  the 
teacher,  calling  to  the  lad  across  the  school- 
room. 

"  Can't  work  out  this  problem,  sir,"  re- 
plied the  lad,  looking  confused. 

"  Have  you  tried  to  do  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  How  long  have  you  tried  ?" 

"  I've  been  trying  for  an  hour,  sir." 


84-  i  CAN'T  DO 


"Bring  it  to  me  and  let  me  see  what 
you  are  doing." 

The  boy  left  his  seat  and  came  up  as 
directed.  After  the  teacher  had  looked 
over  his  work  for  a  few  minutes,  he  said — 

"You  must  try  again,  Henry.  You 
have  gone  the  right  way  about  it,  but  you 
have  made  an  error  in  your  calculations." 

The  boy  went  back  to  his  seat,  saying 
to  himself,  as  he  did  so,  "  Its  no  use  to 
try— I  can't  do  it." 

But  he  knew  that  he  must  follow  the 
direction  of  his  teacher,  and  so  he  sat  down 
and  commenced  going  over  all  the  calcula- 
tions again;  he  had  not  been  more  than 
ten  minutes  at  this  before  he  discovered 
where  the  error  lay. 

"  Never  say  c  I  can't  do  it/  again,  Henry," 
said  his  teacher,  when  he  took  him  up 
ihe  problem  accurately  worked  out.  "  The 
l3oy  who  says  that  often  is  never  worth 
much  as  a  man." 

When  Henry  went  home  he  told  his 
father  what  the  teacher  had  said. 


i  CAN'T  DO  IT.  85 


"  He  spoke  the  truth,  my  son,"  remarked 
Mr.  Bradford.  "  I  remember  a  lad  who, 
when  he  was  about  your  age,  had  so  little 
confidence  in  himself  that  he  was  discour- 
aged at  any  and  every  thing  requiring 
effort.  He  was  always  saying,  just  as  you 
are,  i  I  can't  do  it.'  And  yet,  like  you,  he 
had  as  good  abilities  as  most  boys." 

"  Was  he  never  worth  much  as  a  man  ?" 
asked  Henry,  innocently. 

Mr.  Bradford  smiled,  and  said — 

"  Oh  yes.  He  did  very  well  as  a  man ; 
but  he  was  cured  of  his  want  of  confidence 
in  his  own  abilities  before  he  became  a 
man,  or  I  doubt  if  he  would  have  turned 
out  good  for  much." 

"  How  was  he  cured,  father  ?" 

"I  will  tell  you;  and  I  hope  you  will 
profit  by  what  I  am  going  to  relate.  This 
lad's  name  was  Henry.  One  day,  when  he 
was  only  fifteen  years  of  age,  his  father 
said  to  him — 

"  *  Henry,  my  business  has  got  so  bad 
that  I  am  compelled  to  send  away  my 


I   CAN  T   DO   IT. 


clerk.  You  have  been  going  to  school  for 
a  good  many  years,  and  have  studied  book- 
keeping, and  I  suppose  can  take  charge  of 
my  books  very  well.  I  must  take  you 
from  school  and  make  you  my  clerk/ 

"  '  I  can't  do  it  indeed/  replied  the  lad, 
frightened  at  the  very  idea. 

"  '  Oh  yes,  you  can/  answered  his  father. 
'To-morrow  you  must  begin,  as  William 
leaves  me  to-day/ 

"  On  the  next  morning  Henry  went  to 
his  father's  store.  When  he  was  shown 
the  huge  ledger  and  journal,  also  the  day* 
book,  bill-book,  cash-cook,  sales-book,  &c., 
he  felt  sure  that  he  could  not  keep  them, 
and  said,  as  he  was  always  in  the  l&bit  of 
doing,  when  any  difficulty  presented  itself: 
c  I  can't  do  it.' 

" '  Yes,  but  I  tell  you  that  you  can  do  it, 
and  yoikmust  do  it/  answered  the  father, 
a  good  deal  out  of  patience  with  him. 
£  Try !  you  can  do  that,  at  least/ 

"  The  boy  never  liked  to  have  his  father 


i  CAN'T  DO  IT.  87 


displeased  with  him :  he  looked  up  into  his 
face  and  replied — 

"  '  I  will  try,  father;  but  I ' 

"  '  We  don't  want  any  "  but's"  about  it, 
Henry/  he  said  quickly.  '  Try — try — try 
— always  be  ready  to  try  to  do  any  thing, 
and  you  will  soon  be  able  to  do  almost 
every  thing.' 

"As  Henry's  father  was  so  much  in 
earnest  about  the  matter,  he  had  nothing 
to  do  but  to  try.  To  his  own  delight  and 
astonishment,  before  a  week  had  passed  he 
understood  the  books  so  well  that  he  could 
make  all  the  first  entries,  and  carry  every 
thing  through  to  the  ledger. 

"  c  Iflou  see  what  can  be  done  by  trying,' 
said  his  father  to  him. 

" f  Yes,  sir ;  b\it  indeed  I  didn't  think  I 
could  do  it.  It  looked  so  hard.' 

"  c  Every  thing  looks  hard  that  you  don't 
know  how  to  do,  my  son.  But  never  say 
you  can't  do  any  thing,  until  you  have 
tried. '  It  will  be  very  strange  if  you  say 
it  afterward.' 


I   CAN  T   DO   IT. 


"Henry  continued  to  keep  his  father's 
books,  and  to  assist  him  in  his  business, 
which  improved  very  much  in  the  course 
of  a  couple  of  years.  At  the  end  of  this 
time  his  father  said  to  him — 

" '  Henry,  I  want  you  to  go  out  to  South 
America  with  a  cargo  of  flour,  in  the  brig 
Mary,  which  I  have  just  purchased.' 

"Henry  shrank  back  at  the  thought. 
He  knew  nothing  of  South  America,  nor 
of  the  manner  of  doing  business  there.  He 
had  never  studied  the  Spanish  language. 
In  fact,  he  felt  himself  totally  unfitted  to 
go.  But  his  father  wouldn't  hear  a  word 
of  objection. 

"CI  don't  know  the  language,'  said 
Henry. 

" '  The  vessel  won't  be  ready  for  a 
month,'  was  the  reply;  '  study  Spanish 
during  that  time.' 

" c  But  I  cant  acquire  a  knowledge  of 
the  Spanish  language  in  a  month/  he  re- 
plied. 

"'Try,   try,   try,   Henry!     Don't     say 


i  CAN'T  DO  IT.  89 


"can't"  to  any  thing.  Learn  all  you  can, 
and  then  study  the  language  for  yourself 
on  the  outward  voyage,  and  spend  as 
much  time  as  possible  in  conversing  with 
the  captain,  who  speaks  Spanish  very  well. 
My  word  for  it,  by  the  time  you  reach  Rio 
you  will  be  able  to  speak  enough  of  the 
language  to  answer  every  purpose.' 

"  Henry  commenced  taking  lessons  in 
Spanish  immediately,  and  informed  him- 
self as  minutely  as  possible  about  the 
manner  of  trading  in  South  America.  By 
the  time  the  vessel  sailed,  he  felt  a  good 
deal  more  confidence  in  himself.  When  he 
arrived  on  the  coast,  he  found  no  difficulty 
whatever  in  carrying  out  the  purposes  of 
the  voyage.  It  was  just  as  easy,  almost, 
as  posting  his  father's  books  after  he  had 
learned  how  to  do  it. 

"Til  never  say  "  I  can't  do  it,"  again,' 
he  said  to  his  father  on  returning  home. 
'I  believe  I  can  do  almost  any  thing,  if 
I  try.' 

"  *  And  so  you  can,  my  son.     It  isn't  so 


90  i  CAN'T  DO  IT. 


much  the  want  of  ability  that  keeps  men 
from  accomplishing  great  things,  as  the 
want  of  confidence  and  energy.  Be  ready 
to  attempt  any  thing  that  comes  in  your 
way  to  do,  and  never  say,  "  I  can't  do  it ;" 
at  least,  not  until  you  have  tried/ 

"  Henry  was  as  good  as  his  word.  From 
that  time  he  never  permitted  any  difficulty 
to  discourage  him,  and  many  and  many  a 
one  he  has  had  to  encounter  and  overcome. 
He  is  now  a  man,  and  has  a  son  who  is 
just  as  easily  disheartened  as  he  once  was, 
and  who,  if  he  does  not  overcome  this  dis- 
position, will  never  be  as  successful  in  the 
world  as  his  father  has  been." 

"Why,  father!  It  wasn't  you,  was  it?" 
exclaimed  Henry  in  surprise. 

"Yes,  my  son.  I  have  told  you  my 
own  history.  I  was  just  such  a  boy  as 
you  are,  and  I  was  always  saying,  <  I  can't 
do  it/  whenever  I  encountered  any  little 
difficulty.  But  I  learned  that  all  I  had  to 
do  was  to  try,  and  I  could  do  any  thing. 


i  CAN'T  DO  IT.  91 


And  if  you  ever  expect  to  make  a  man, 
you  must  try" 

"  I  will  try,  father,"  said  Henry,  inspired 
with  a  determination  to  conquer  his  weak- 
ness. And  he  did  try,  and  gradually 
learned  that  a  little  perseverance  would 
enable  him  to  overcome  almost  any  diffi- 
culty, no  matter  how  discouraging  it  was 
at  first  to  look  upon. 


A  GENTLEMAN. 


very  gentle  with  her,  my  son,"  said 
Mrs.  Butler,  as  she  tied  on  her  little 
girl's  bonnet,  and  sent  her  out  to  play  with 
her  elder  brother. 

They  had  not  been  out  very  long  before 
a  cry  was  heard,  and  presently  Julius  came 
in  and  threw  down  his  hat,  saying — 

"  I  hate  playing  witn  girls !  There's  no 
fun  with  them ;  they  cry  in  a  minute." 

"What  have  you  been  doing  to  your 
sister  ?  I  see  her  lying  there  on  the  gravel 
walk :  you  have  torn  her  frock  and  pushed 
her  down.  I  am  afraid  you  forgot  my 
caution  to  be  gentle." 

"Gentle  !  Boys  can't  be  gentle,  mother; 


A   GENTLEMAN.  93 


its  their  nature  to  be  rough,  and  hardy, 
and  boisterous.  They  are  the  stuff  soldiers 
and  sailors  are  made  of.  Its  very  well  to 
talk  of  a  gentle  girl ;  but  a  gentle  boy — it 
sounds  ridiculous !  I  should  be  ready  to 
knock  a  fellow  down  for  calling  me  so!" 

"And  yet,  Julius,  you  would  be  very 
angry,  a  few  years  hence,  if  any  one  were 
to  say  you  were  not  a  gentle  man." 

"A  gentle  man.  I  never  thought  of 
dividing  the  word  in  that  way  before. 
Being  gentle  always  seems  to  me  like 
being  weak  and  womanish." 

"  This  is  so  far  from  being  the  case,  my 
son,  that  you  will  always  find  that  the 
bravest  men  are  the  most  gentle.  The 
spirit  of  chivalry  that  you  so  much  admire, 
was  a  spirit  of  the  noblest  courage,  and  the 
utmost  gentleness  combined.  Still  I  dare 
say  you  would  rather  be  called  a  manly 
than  a  gentle  boy?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  mother." 

"Well,  then,  my  son,  it  is  my  greatest 
wish  that  you  should  endeavour  to  unite 


94  A   GENTLEMAN. 


the  two.  Show  yourself  manly  when  you 
are  exposed  to  danger  or  see  others  in 
peril ;  be  manly  when  called  on  to  speak 
the  truth,  though  the  speaking  of  it  may 
bring  reproach  upon  you;  be  manly  when 
you  are  in  sickness  and  pain.  At  the  same 
time  be  gentle,  whether  you  be  with  females 
or  with  men ;  be  gentle  toward  all  men. 
By  putting  the  two  qualities  together,  you 
will  deserve  a  name  which,  perhaps,  you 
will  not  so  greatly  object  to." 

"  I  see  what  you  mean  dear  mother,  and 
I  will  endeavour  to  be  what  you  wish — a 
gentlemanly  boy." 


THE  LITTLE  BOY  WHO  DIDX'T  WANT  TO  GO  TO  SABBATH-SCHOOL. 
.(9)  Page  97. 


THE  SABBATH-SCHOOL. 


"  T  WISH  I  didn't  have  to  go  to  Sunday- 
school,"  said  Harry  Sandford  to  his 
mother,  as  she  was  pinning  on  his  clean 
collar,  and  brushing  his  hair  nicely,  one 
bright  Sabbath  afternoon. 

"  Would  you  rather  stay  at  home  ?"  ask- 
ed his  mother. 

"Oh  yes.     A  great  deal  rather." 
"Would  you  play  all  the  time?" 
"I  would  play  some,  and  read  some,  and 
do    a   good   many   things.     I  think  it  is 
enough  to  go  to  school  all  the  week." 

"But  to-day  is  Sunday.  It  is  the  Lord's 
day.  What  does  that  commandment  say 
which  speaks  of  the  Sabbath?" 


98  THE   SABBATH-SCHOOL. 


"  It  says, c  Six  days  shalt  thou  labour  and 
do  all  thy  work,  but  the  seventh  day  is  the 
Sabbath  of  the  Lord  thy  God.  In  it,  thou 
shalt  not  do  any  work,  thou,  nor  thy  man- 
servant, nor  thy  maid-servant,  thy  ox,  nor 
thy  ass,  nor  thy  stranger  that  is  within  thy 
gates.  For  in  six  days  the  Lord  made  the 
heavens  and  the  earth,  the  sea,  and  all 
that  in  them  is,  and  rested  on  the  seventh 
day;  wherefore  the  Lord  blessed  the  Sab- 
bath-day and  hallowed  it.'" 

"What  do  you  think  this  means,  my 
son?" 

"It  means  that  we  mustn't  work  on  Sun- 
day, doesn't  it?" 

"It  means,  that  on  the  Lord's  holy  day 
we  should  rest  from  all  worldly  employ- 
ments, and  raise  our  thoughts  to  heavenly 
things.  The  Lord  gives  us  six  days  in 
which  to  labour  and  do  all  our  natural 
work,  and  then  the  Sabbath  comes;  the 
Sabbath,  in  which  our  hands  are  no  longer 
required  to  labour,  nor  our  thoughts  to  be 
engaged  in  worldly  things.  On  this  blessed 


THE    SABBATH-SCHOOL.  99 


day  we  can  lift  up  our  minds  and  think 
about  the  Lord,  and  meet  together  to  wor- 
ship him,  and  return  him  our  thanks  for 
the  many  blessings  that  we  receive  from 
him.  Now,  you,  my  son,  have  many  hours, 
each  day  of  the  week,  for  playing,  and  read- 
ing your  pretty  books.  Should  you  not, 
then,  on  the  Sabbath,  not  only  be  willing 
but  glad  to  go  to  Sunday-school,  where, 
with  other  little  children,  you  can  read  and 
hear  about  the  Lord  and  heaven,  and  learn 
to  love  one  another?  I  know  that  this  will 
be  much  better  for  you." 

"  But  the  commandment  doesn't  say  that 
little  boys  must  go  to  Sunday-school,"  said 
Harry.  "  I  am  sure  I  can  rest  from  labour 
as  well  by  staying  at  home." 

"  Do  you  believe  you  will  think  as  much 
about  the  Lord  and  be  as  thankful  to  him 
for  all  his  blessings?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  I  can  read  in  the  Bible 
the  same  as  I  do  at  school." 

"  And  chant  and  sing  hymns  of  praise  to 
the  Lord?" 


100  THE   SABBATH-SCHOOL. 


Little  Harry's  eyes  dropped  to  the  floor. 

"And  see  your  kind  teacher's  face,  and 
hear  all  the  excellent  things  she  says  to 
the  children,  and  love  her  as  well?"  con- 
tinued the  mother. 

"I  can't  do  all  that,  I  know,"  returned 
the  boy. 

"I  know  you  cannot,  my  son.  Now 
think.  Do  you  not  know,  that  when  you 
are  in  company  with  many  persons,  you 
soon  get  interested  in  what  they  are  all  do- 
ing and  saying;  but  that  while  you  are  by 
yourself,  you  cannot  remain  long  interested 
in  any  thing,  nor  will  your  interest  be  as 
strong  as  it  would  be  if  others  shared  the 
pleasure  with  you.  Is  not  this  so  ?  Think." 

"I  never  like  to  read  to  myself  as  well 
as  I  do  aloud  for  you  to  hear,"  said  the 
boy. 

"  Nor  to  play  by  yourself  as  well  as  you 
do  with  other  children?" 

"Oh  no,  ma'am." 

"Nor  would  you  be  able  to  keep  the 
commandment,  '  Remember  the  Sabbath- 


THE    SABBATH-SCHOOL.  101 


day  to  keep  it  holy/  as  well  alone,  as  if  you 
were  associated  with  other  little  boys  and 
girls,  met  together  for  the  same  purpose. 
Do  jou  now  think  that  you  would?" 

"I  am  afraid  not,  mother." 

"  I  am  sure  that  you  would  not,  Henry. 
And  it  is  for  this  reason  that  your  father 
and  mother  wish  you  to  go  to  the  Sabbath- 
school.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  your 
teachers  meet  with  you  every  Sabbath. 
They  know  that  they  can  do  you  good 
when  you  are  all  together  and  they  can 
see  you  and  talk  to  you  face  to  face." 

"I  don't  want  to  stay  at  home  now," 
said  little  Harry,  putting  his  arms  around 
his  mother's  neck  and  kissing  her.  "  I  will 
go  to  the  Sabbath-school,  for  I  know  it  will 
be  better  for  me."  t 

"And  not  only  better  for  you,  my  son," 
said  the  mother.  "  It  will  be  better  for  the 
other  little  boys  and  girls.  Think  of  that !" 

"  Why,  how  can  that  be,  mother  ?" 

"  If  the  company  of  others  helps  you  to 
think  of  the  Lord  and  his  goodness,  your 


102  THE    SABBATH-SCHOOL. 


company  will  help  them  to  do  the  same. 
You  all  help  each  other.  For  the  sake  of 
other  little  boys  and  girls,  then,  it  is  your 
duty  to  go  to  school.  Your  presence  adds 
one  to  the  company,  and  makes  it  stronger. 
If  you  stay  away,  and  another  and  another 
stay  away,  the  few  who  are  left  will  not 
find  the  school  so  pleasant,  nor  be  able, 
while  there,  to  take  so  much  delight  in 
reading  the  word,  and  singing  in  praise  of 
the  LordV  goodness.  For  the  sake  of 
others,  then,  as  well  as  yourself,  my  dear 
boy,  you  must  go  regularly  to  the  Sabbath- 
school.  It  is  one  of  your  first  duties  in 
life,  and  an  easy  one.  Do  not  let  the  wish 
to  neglect  it  find  any  place  in  your  mind," 


FIEST   EAENINGS. 


~j\  TOST  boys  are  inclined  to  be  spend- 
thrifts. Sixpences  and  shillings  burn 
holes  in  their  pockets  or  slip  through  their 
fingers  like  so  much  quicksilver.  It  was 
not  so  with  Ned  Billings;  though  this 
could  hardly  be  placed  to  the  account  of 
his  over-carefulness  of  money;  for  money 
was  a  thing  that  rarely  grew  hot  in  his 
pockets  or  made  his  fingers  uneasy.  In- 
temperance had  brought  his  father  to  an 
early  grave;  and  his  sad-hearted  mother 
was  laid  in  her  last  resting-place  ere  he 
was  five  years  old.  From  that  time  he 
knew  not  the  comforts  of  a  home.  An 
aunt  gave  him  shelter  under  her  roof,  and 


104  FIRST    EARNINGS. 


a  seat  at  her  table;  but  both  were  grudg- 
ingly bestowed.  As  for  clothing,  he  had 
little  beyond  what  decency  required.  But 
Ned  was  a  boy  of  a  cheerful,  buoyant  tem- 
per. He  went  singing  and  laughing  on 
his  way  through  life,  as  happy,  apparently, 
as  if  he  were  in  the  enjoyment  of  every 
external  comfort.  The  common  school  of 
the  village  in  which  he  lived,  afforded  him 
the  rudiments  of  an  education ;  and,  wild 
and  apparently  reckless  as  he  was  out  of 
school,  he  was  rarely  behind  in  his  class. 
By  the  time  he  was  twelve  years  old,  Ned's 
mind  was  very  well  furnished  for  one  of 
his  age ;  though,  to  judge  from  his  exterior, 
he  would  hardly  have  been  thought  com- 
petent to  spell  a  word  in  three  syllables. 

The  older  the  lad  grew,  the  less  comfort- 
able did  he  find  his  home,  and  the  more 
clearly  did  he  perceive  that  his  support 
was  felt  as  a  burden  by  his  aunt,  who 
hardly  ever  gave  him  a  pleasant  word. 
This  was  the  state  of  affairs  when,  one 
day,  as  Ned  was  strolling  idly  along,  a  boy 


FIRST  EARNINGS.  105 


several  years  older,  named  Andrew  Chester, 
the  son  of  a  storekeeper,  who  had  been 
sent  to  carry  a  pretty  heavy  bundle  to  a 
customer  who  lived  at  some  distance,  called 
to  him  and  said — 

"  I'll  give  you  a  shilling  if  you  will  take 
this  home." 

"Agreed!"  was  Ned's  instant  reply. 
u  Where  is  it  to  go?" 

"Over  to  Hargrove's." 

Ned  took  hold  of  the  bundle,  and  lifted 
it.  The  weight  was  considerable  for  one 
of  his  strength,  and  the  distance  to  go  was 
over  a  mile;  but  this  caused  no  hesitation. 
A  shilling  was  an  amount  of  money  so  far 
beyond  any  thing  he  had  ever  possessed, 
that  the  temptation  was  not  to  be  resisted. 

"  I'll  stay  here  and  play  ball  until  you 
come  back,"  said  Andrew  as  he  helped  to 
place  th§  bundle  on  Ned's  shoulders.  "  I've 
got  the  shilling  all  ready  for  you."  And 
he  displayed  the  money  before  the  eyes  of 
the  poor  boy. 

Ned  started  off  at  a  quick  pace;  but  he 


106  FIRST    EARNINGS. 


had  gone  only  a  few  hundred  yards  when  he 
found  himself  staggering  under  a  weight  that 
was  too  much  for  his  strength.  Aware  that 
if  he  laid  it  down,  in  order  to  rest,  he  would 
not  be  able  to  replace  it  on  his  shoulder 
again,  he  braced  himself  under  his  burden, 
and  moved  along  as  rapidly  as  he  could 
walk.  But,  ere  a  third  of  the  distance  was 
accomplished,  his  strength  failed,  and  bundle 
and  boy  both  fell  upon  the  ground.  After 
resting  for  ten  minutes,  Ned  made  an  effort 
to  raise  his  burden ;  but  the  attempt  was 
fruitless.  A  man  passing  at  the  time  gave 
him  the  required  assistance,  arid  once  more 
he  started  on  his  errand.  The  next  resting- 
place  for  his  bundle  was  on  a  fence;  a  hun- 
dred yards  farther  on,  a  tall  stump  served 
the  same  purpose.  And  thus,  pausing  to 
rest  himself  and  recover  his  strength  every 
twenty  or  thirty  yards,  he  succeeded  in 
accomplishing  the  whole  distance. 

When  Ned  came  back,  Andrew  Chester, 
who  had  enjoyed  his  ball-playing  for  nearly 
an  hour,  paid  over  the  shilling  according  to 


FIRST  EARNINGS.  107 


agreement.  The  sight  of  this  money — a 
large  sum  in  the  lad's  eyes — affected  him 
with  new  pleasure.  Here  were  his  first 
earnings,  and,  as  he  looked  at  the  coin, 
different  thoughts  from  any  he  had  here- 
tofore known  began  to  pass  through  his 
mind.  He  felt  that  he  had  in  him  the 
power  to  be  independent.  He  had  hands 
to  work,  feet  to  walk,  and  a  willing  mind. 

Ned's  first  earnings  were  not  spent  in 
gratifying  his  appetite.  He  had  worked 
too  hard  for  his  shilling  to  part  with  it 
lightly.  Again  and  again  he  looked  at  the 
money ;  and  each  time  he  surveyed  it,  it 
appeared  more  attractive  in  his  eyes.  At 
last  it  was  carefully  deposited  in  his  pocket, 
to  be  more  carefully  hidden  away  in  the 
little  garret  where  he  slept,  on  his  return 
home. 

For  half  the  night  Ned  lay  awake,  his 
mind  too  busy  with  the  new  thoughts 
which  had  entered  it  to  sink  into  the  obli- 
vion of  sleep.  The  world  was  opening 
before  him,  young  as  he  was.  He  saw 


108  FIRST    EARNINGS. 


paths  in  which  his  feet  could  walk ;  and 
he  felt  eager  to  move  in  them.  On  the 
next  morning,  after  taking  a  glance  at  his 
shilling,  he  started  forth,  and  going  to  the 
store  of  Mr.  Chester,  saw  Andrew,  and  asked 
him  if  he  would  have  any  more  bundles 
for  him  to  carry.  The  father  of  Andrew 
Chester,  though  in  very  good  circumstances, 
had  no  idea  of  raising  his  son  in  idleness. 
He  knew  the  value  of  industrious  habits, 
and,  in  order  to  form  them  in  Andrew,  who 
was  disposed  to  be  indolent,  he  took  him 
from  school  when  he  was  fifteen,  and 
placed  him  in  his  store.  The  lad  was  very 
well  pleased  with  the  change  at  first,  for 
he  did  not  much  like  his  books.  But  he 
soon  grew  weary  of  attending  in  the  store 
and  carrying  home  goods  to  customers,  and, 
whenever  an  opportunity  offered,  endea- 
voured to  escape  from  the  duties  required 
of  him.  As  his  father  let  him  have  money 
pretty  freely,  he  did  not  value  it  much ; 
and  had  parted  willingly  enough  with  a 
shilling  in  order  to  escape  carrying  a  heavy 


FIRST   EARNINGS.  109 


bundle  for  a  long  distance,  while  at  the 
same  time  he  secured  the  pleasure  of  an 
hour's  sport. 

The  application  of  Ned  was  favourably 
received  by  Andrew;  and  it  was  agreed 
between  them  that  the  former  should  re- 
ceive three  cents  for  every  package  he  took 
home  for  the  latter,  who  it  must  be  under- 
stood, did  not  much  like  to  be  seen  carrying 
bundles  of  goods  about  the  village.  Ned, 
it  was  also  agreed,  should  be  waiting  some- 
where in  the  neighbourhood,  and  meet 
Andrew  as  soon  as  he  came  forth  with 
goods  in  his  hands.  While  he  conveyed 
them  to  the  customers,  Andrew  would  be 
free  to  enjoy  himself  as  he  liked.  For  three 
weeks  this  arrangement  was  continued. 
By  this  time,  Ned  had  over  a  dollar  in  his 
little  treasury.  Not  a  single  copper  had 
he  spent  in  any  self-indulgence.  But  a 
change  came  over  his  golden  dream.  Mr. 
Chester  discovered  what  was  going  on,  and, 
after  severely  reprimanding  Andrew,  posi- 
tively forbade  him  making  any  further 


110  FIRST    EARNINGS. 


delegation  of  his  work.  Poor  Ned  was 
grievously  disappointed  when  this  intel- 
ligence reached  his  ears.  Already  he  had 
begun  to  make  calculations  for  the  future. 
But  the  beautiful  castles  he  had  built  were 
but  airy  structures,  and  faded  away  into 
nothingness. 

The  new  ideas  and  purposes  awakened 
in  the  mind  of  Ned  could  not  sleep  again. 
They  were  ever  present  before  his  mind. 
One  day,  a  few  weeks  after  the  sudden 
closing  of  his  arrangement  with  Andrew 
Chester,  he  said  to  the  relative  who  had 
given  him,  with  grudging,  a  home,  "  Aunt, 
if  you'll  give  me  some  clothes,  I'll  go  to 
New  York  and  take  care  of  myself." 

"  To  York !"  exclaimed  the  aunt,  taken 
by  surprise.  "  What'll  you  do  there-?" 

"  Work,"  was  the  confident  reply.  "  I'm 
old  enough  and  strong  enough." 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  talking 
about,  Ned,"  petulantly  returned  the  aunt, 
who  hardly  ever  gave  the  boy  a  kind 
word. 


FIRST    EARNINGS.  Ill 

"Oh  yes,  I  do,"  said  Ned.  "Only  give 
me  some  decent  clothes,  and  I'll  never 
trouble  you  again  as  long  as  I  live." 

Ned  continued  to  urge  this  point,  day 
after  day,  until  the  aunt,  becoming  con- 
vinced that  he  was  really  in  earnest, 
granted  the  request.  A  coarse  suit  of 
clothes  was  made  up  for  him,  and  a  pair 
of  shoes  and  a  new  hat  bought.  With 
these,  his  dollar  hid  away  in  his  pockets, 
as  much  money  besides  as  would  pay  stage- 
hire  to  New  York,  and  his  aunt's  blessing, 
such  as  it  was,  Ned  turned  his  back  upon 
his  home  and  his  face  to  the  world,  feeling 
strong  and  confident.  A  few  hours'  ride 
brought  him  to  the  great  city.  Never  had 
he  felt  so  much  alone  as  he  did  while  wan- 
dering along  the  crowded  streets,  which  he 
did  until  the  sober  hues  of  evening  re- 
minded him  that  he  had  nowhere  to  lay 
his  head.  By  this  time  he  was  hungry 
and  fatigued.  Not  a  copper  had  he  spent 
since  his  arrival,  notwithstanding  the 
tempting  array  of  fruit  and  confectionery 


112  FIRST    EARNINGS. 


that  met  his  eyes  at  almost  every  turn. 
Now  the  calls  of  nature  were  not  to  be  dis- 
regarded, and,  buying  some  buns,  he  seated 
himself  on  the  steps  of  a  large  house  in  the 
upper  part  of  the  city,  and  commenced  eat- 
ing his  evening  meal.  While  thus  engaged, 
a  man  stopped  before  him,  and,  after  Jooking 
at  him  for  some  moments,  said,  as  if  satis- 
fied with  his  observation — 

"  Eating  your  supper,  I  see." 

Ned  looked  an  affirmative,  but  made  no 
reply. 

"After  supper,  where  do  you  expect  to 
sleep  ?"  said  the  man,  leaning  as  he  spoke 
upon  the  iron-railing. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Ned. 

"  Don't  know !  You're  from  the  country  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"What  brought  you  to  town?" 

"  I've  come  to  get  work  and  take  care 
of  myself." 

"You  have !  When  did  you  come?" 

"To-day." 

"Where  from?" 


FIRST    EARNINGS.  113 


"  p  " 

"  Have  you  no  friends  in  the  city  ?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Are  your  father  and  mother  alive  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  I've  lived  with  my  aunt  ever 
since  I  was  a  little  boy." 

"And  did  she  let  you  come  into  the  city 
to  take  care  of  yourself?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Her  affection  for  you  must  be  strong," 
said  the  man,  half  to  himself.  "Have  you 
any  money  ?"  he  added. 

The  boy  hesitated  a  moment  or  two,  and 
then  replied — 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"How  much?" 

^  Seven  shillings  and  sixpence." 

"  Where  did  you  get  this  money?" 

"  I  earned  it." 

"  Since  you  came  to  this  city?" 

"  No,  sir  :  I  earned  it  in  P .  But,  I 

couldn't  get  any  thing  more  to  do  there, 
and  so  I  thought  I'd  come  to  New  York, 
where  there  was  plenty  of  work."- 


114  FIRST    EARNINGS. 


Something  about  Ned  interested  the 
man,  and  as  he  lived  in  the  house,  he  said 
to  him,  after  a  hurried  reflection  as  to  the 
propriety  of  doing  so — 

"Come  in.  I'd  like  to  have  some  more 
talk  with  you." 

Ned  followed  the  man,  who  took  him 
into  his  kitchen,  and  told  a  servant  to  give 
him  some  supper;  and  also  to  let  him  re- 
main there  until  he  sent  for  him. 

A  further  interview  with  the  lad  in- 
terested the  man  still  more.  He  was  a 
lawyer,  named  Folwell,  who  had  risen  from 
a  poor  boy,  through  the  force  of  his  own 
character,  to  eminence  and  fortune. 

"  The  boy  needs  a  friend,  and  if  he  be 
worthy,  he  shall  find  one  in  me,"  said  Mr. 
Folwell  to  himself,  after  his  second  con- 
ference with  Ned.  With  this  feeling  he 
gave  him  a  shelter  under  his  roof  for  the 
night,  and,  on  the  next  day,  took  him  to 
his  office  in  order  to  more  accurately  deter- 
mine what  was  in  him.  To  his  surprise,  he 
found  that  Ned  could  write  a  pretty  fair 


FIRST    EARNINGS.  115 


hand,  and  could  make  ordinary  calculations 
quite  as  well  as  most  boys  of  his  age. 
Moreover  he  was  quick,  earnest,  and  intelli- 
gent, and  eager  to  enter  upon  any  employ- 
ment that  was  assigned  him. 

"  He's  got  the  right  kind  of  stuff  in  him," 
said  Mr.  Folwell,  after  testing  Ned's  cha- 
racter and  abilities  in  various  ways.  "  Just 
such  a  lad  as  I  should  like  to  educate  in 
my  own  profession." 

Of  course,  Ned  had  no  objection  to  any 
thing  his  new-found  friend  had  to  propose. 
It  was,  therefore,  settled  that  he  should 
enter  his  service  and  give  himself  up  im- 
plicitly to  his  direction. 

A  year  after  Ned  came  to  the  city,  Mr. 
Chester  called  upon  Mr.  Folwell,  and  ar- 
ranged with  him  that  his  son  Andrew 
should  read  law  in  his  office.  Up  to  this 
time,  Ned  had  found  but  few  chances  of 
adding  to  his  first  earnings,  which  had 
never  been  touched  beyond  the  sixpence  it 
cost  him  for  his  supper  on  the  evening  of 
his  first  arrival  in  New  York.  Occasionally, 


116  FIRST    EARNINGS. 


Mr.  Folwell  had  given  him  a  shilling  to 
spend  for  himself;  but  the  little  coin  had 
in  no  instance  passed  through  his  fingers, 
but  was  safely  deposited  to  swell  the  trea- 
sure he  was  hoarding.  Andrew's  arrival  in 
the  city  made  a  new  era  for  Ned.  Pocket- 
money  had  he  in  profusion,  and,  as  before, 
he  availed  himself  of  Ned's  readiness  to 
perform  'almost  any  service,  fti  order  to 
gratify  his  natural  indolence.  Dollars 
found  their  way  now  to  the  boy's  accumu- 
lating fund  more  rapidly  than  shillings  did 
before. 

"How  much  money  have  you,  Ned?" 
asked  Andrew,  one  day  after  he  had  been 
a  year  in  the  city. 

"  Six  dollars,"  replied  Ned. 

"  Lend  it  to  me  until  week  after  next, 
and  I'll  pay  you  back  seven  ?" 

Ned  hesitated. 

"Don't  be  afraid.  I'll  pay  it.  You 
know  I  get  money  from  home  every 
month." 

"I'm   not   afraid,"   replied   Ned.     "I'll 


FIRST   EARNINGS.  117 


bring  you  the  money  when  I  come  from 
dinner." 

This  was  done.  The  six  dollars  were 
lent,  and  seven  paid  back,  as  agreed  upon, 
at  the  time  specified.  Here  was  the  begin- 
ning of  new  operations.  Andrew  now  spent 
his  money  more  freely,  because  he  knew 
that  when  it  was  gone,  he  could  borrow 
from  Ned  until  another  supply  came;  and 
the  young  usurer  was  even  more  eager  to 
lend  than  he  was  to  borrow.  This  had 
been  going  on  for  several  months,  when 
Mr.  Folwell  became  aware  of  what  was  in 
progress.  After  a  serious  conversation  with 
Andrew  upon  the  folly  and  danger  of  the 
course  of  life  he  was  adopting,  he  called 
Ned  into  his  private  office,  and  after  refer- 
ring to  the  subject,  *said  to  him — 

"  Are  you  not  aware  that  what  you  are 
doing  is  wrong  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Ned,  looking  Mr.  Fol- 
well, without  a  quivering  eyelid,  in  the 
face. 

"  It  is,  Edward,  very  wrong ;  for  you 


118  FIRST    EARNINGS. 


are  taking  advantage  of  Andrew's  weak- 
ness and  prodigal  habits,  to  get  his  money 
from  him.  I  understand,  that  for  five  dollars 
lent  to  him  for  a  week  or  two,  he  pays  you 
six  dollars.  Is  this  so  ?" 

"Yes,  sir.     He  offered  me  that." 

"  But  it  was  wrong  for  you  to  take  it. 
You  should  have  been  willing  to  oblige 
him  without  the  exaction  of  this  exorbi- 
tant interest.  Where  did  you  get  so  much 
money  to  lend  ?" 

"  I  had  seven  shillings  and  sixpence 
when  I  came  here,  and  you  have  given  me 
a  good  many  shillings  since." 

"  Haven't  you  spent  any  thing?" 

"  No,  sir." 

'  But  I  haven't  given  you  enough  to 
make  the  sum  of  money  I  learn  you  have 
in  possession." 

"  No,  sir.  But,  since  Andrew  has  been 
in  New  York,  he  has  paid  me  a  good  deal 
for  doing  things  for  him." 

"  How  much  has  he  paid  you  for  lending 
him  money  ?" 


FIRST   EARNINGS.  119 


"  Six  dollars,"  replied  Ned,  after  think- 
ing for  a  few  moments. 

"Six  dollars!"  Mr.  Folwell  shook  his 
head  and  looked  grave.  "  I  don't  like  this 
at  all.  It's  the  worst  thing  Tve  seen  about 
you,  Edward." 

"If  I've  done  wrong,  I'm  sorry,"  said 
Ned,  his  face  becoming  serious.  "  I  didn't 
know  there  was  any  harm  in  it." 

"  There  is  always  harm  in  seeking  our 
own  good  through  injury  to  another,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Folwell.  "  This  you  have  done  in 
taking  the  money  of  Andrew  for  a  little  ser- 
vice that  you  ought  to  have  cheerfully  ren- 
dered him.  It  put  you  to  no  inconvenience 
whatever  in  doing  the  favour  he  asked  of 
you ;  but  you  would  not  grant  it  unless  paid 
a  most  exorbitant  price.  Sheer  selfishness, 
and  not  a  spirit  of  good-will,  influenced  you. 
Thus  your  heart  was  hardened  toward  your 
fellows  instead  of  being  filled  with  kind- 
ness. This  is  a  wrong  beginning,  my  boy, 
and  will  lead  you  to  grow  up  into  a  man 


) 


120  FIRST   EARNINGS. 


of  oppression.  Why  are  you  hoarding  up 
your  money?" 

"  I'm  going  to  keep  it  until  I  become  a 
man." 

"What  for?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

Mr.  Folwell  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  like  this,  Edward,  at  all.  It 
isn't  good  to  love  money  for  itself.  Money 
is  the  medium  of  usefulness  in  society,  and 
should  be  accumulated  and  used  as  the 
means  of  accomplishing  some  desired  pur- 
pose. To  gather  and  hoard  it  as  an  object 
of  possession  is  wrong.  No  one  can  do  it 
and  not  become  a  selfish,  bad  man.  I  want 
you  to  think  of  this.  To-morrow  I  will 
talk  to  you  again." 

Ned's  mind  was  thrown  all  into  confusion 
by  this  unexpected  reproof  from  Mr.  Fol- 
well. At  first,  he  could  not  understand 
the  meaning  of  the  strange  language  that 
had  been  used;  but,  as  he  thought  of  it 
more  and  more,  a  dim  perception  of  the 
truth  began  to  dawn.  On  the  next  day,  Mr. 


FIRST    EARNINGS.  121 


Folwell  again  referred  to  the  subject,  and 
succeeded  in  making  a  stronger  impression 
on  the  mind  of  the  lad.  From  that  time 
he  observed  him  more  closely,  and  sought 
in  every  possible  way  to  give  him  higher 
and  truer  views  in  regard  to  the  use  of 
money.  He  induced  him  to  spend  a  portion 
of  what  he  had  accumulated  in  articles  that 
he  could  use  in  the  better  furnishing  of  his 
mind.  For  instance,  he  offered  to  pay  for 
musical  instruction,  if  Edward  would  buy 
himself  a  flute.  It  cost  the  boy  a  struggle 
to  do  this ;  but  after  it  was  done,  and  he 
commenced  taking  lessons,  he  by  no  means 
regretted  the  act.  Thus,  by  ever  keeping 
his  mind  on  the  boy's  particular  bias  of 
character,  Mr.  Folwell  was  able  to  bend  it 
into  a  better  form  ere  it  had  hardened  into 
permanency. 

As  for  Andrew  Chester,  his  indolence 
and  tendency  to  self-indulgence  were  so 
great  that  little  promise  of  future  usefulness 
was  apparent.  When  he  was  old  enough 
to  be  admitted  to  the  bar,  he  had  nothing 


122  FIRST   EARNINGS. 


like  the  legal  knowledge  possessed  by  Ed- 
ward Billings.  In  his  first  case,  he  paid 
the  latter  for  searching  out  the  legal  au- 
thorities required  for  its  successful  presen- 
tation to  the  court,  and  gained  his  cause 
alone  through  the  aid  received  from  a 
stripling  three  years  younger  than  himself. 
The  money  received  for  prosecuting  this 
case  constituted  Andrew  Chester's  first 
earnings. 

"Do  you  see  that,  Ned,"  said  he,  exhi- 
biting a  fifty-dollar  bank-bill  in  triumph. 

Edward  Billings  opened  his  eyes. 

"  There's  my  first  fee !  A  good  beginning, 
is  it  not  ?  I'm  off  for  Saratoga  to-morrow, 
and  don't  mean  to  come  back  while  a  dollar 
of  it  remains." 

"  I  wouldn't  do  that,"  said  Edward. 

"Why  wouldn't  you?"  quickly  asked 
Andrew. 

"Of  all  money,  I  wouldn't  waste  my 
first  earnings.  Keep  them  as  nest-eggs." 

"You're  a  miser,  Ned.  A  real  money- 
lover." 


FIRST    EARNINGS.  123 


"  I'm  not  a  money-waster.  Dollars  don't 
come  so  easily  that  I  can  afford  to  throw 
them  away.  But,  if  you  will  spend  your 
first  fee,  do  it  in  some  useful  way.  Buy 
your  mother  or  sister  a  present ;  or  spend 
it  in  law  books.  Any  thing  but  waste  it 
in  self-indulgence."  , 

"  Don't  preach  to  me,  Ned,"  replied 
Andrew,  laughing.  "  My  mother  and  sis- 
ters don't  want  any  of  my  presents ;  and 
father  has  promised  me  a  five  hundred 
dollar  library.  I'm  off  for  Saratoga;  that's 
settled.  I  mean  to  have  a  good  time  on 
my  first  fee." 

And  Andrew  kept  his  word.  When  he 
came  back,  every  dollar  of  his  first  earn- 
ings were  spent,  and  he  applied  to  Ed- 
ward Billings  for  a  loan.  When  the  latter 
was  admitted  to  the  bar,  Andrew  had  ob- 
tained a  very  fair  practice  for  the  time  he 
had  been  in  the  profession ;  but  it  cost  him 
three  times  what  he  earned  to  live.  His 
father,  of  course,  made  up  the  deficiency. 

Very  different  from  this  was  Edward's 


124  FIRST   EARNINGS. 


manner  of  commencing  the  world.  He 
understood  too  well  the  value  of  money  to 
waste  it  in  mere  idle  pleasure  and  personal 
gratification.  The  first  fee  he  received  was 
twenty  dollars.  Instead  of  spending  it,  as 
Andrew  had  done,  he  laid  it  carefully  away 
to  help  serve  as  the  means  of  his  support; 
for,  from  the  time  of  his  admission  to  the 
bar,  he  had  felt  under  obligation  to  meet 
entirely  his  own  expenses.  'A  natural 
feeling  of  independence  would  not  permit 
him  any  longer  to  lean  upon  his  kind 
patron.  His  careful  habits  had,  during  his 
minority,  enabled  him  to  save  up  about 
sixty  dollars,  which  now  came  in  as  a 
temporary  means  of  self-subsistence.  Mr. 
Folwell,  who  had  availed  himself  of  his 
services  for  so  many  years,  still  retained 
them  to  a  certain  extent,  and  the  regular 
amount  paid  to  Edward  for  this  service 
helped  him  considerably. 

A  few  years  showed  the  result  of  the 
different  modes  of  entering  the  world  pur- 
sued by  the  two  young  men.  He  who 


FIRST   EARNINGS.  125 


spent  foolishly  his  first  earnings,  continued 
to  waste  what  came  in  subsequently ;  and 
he  who  was  careful  of  his  first  earnings 
continued  to  be  careful  of  his  after  receipts. 
About  the  time  Andrew  reached  his 
twenty-seventh  year,  his  father  died;  and, 
on  the  division  of  his  property,  twelve 
thousand  dollars  came  to  him  as  his  share 
of  the  estate.  This  was  in  two  houses  in 

P and   a  farm  in  the   neighbourhood. 

Scarcely  a  week  elapsed  after  this  division 
took  place,  before  Andrew  applied  to  Ed- 
ward Billings  for  a  loan  of  one  thousand 
dollars  on  a  mortgage  of  the  farm.  The 
latter  had  the  money  in  bank,  and  took  the 
mortgage.  This  money  he  had  saved  from 
his  professional  earnings.  Andrew  might 
have  laid  up  money  also ;  but  as  he  spent 
his  first  earnings,  so  he  continued  to  spend. 
Ten  years  afterward,  and  Edward  Billings 
was  worth  twenty  thousand  dollars,  while 
Andrew  Chester  was  not  worth  a  penny. 
Each  had  gone  on  as  he  began,  and  here 
was  the  result.  Disheartened  by  this  result, 


126  FIRST   EARNINGS. 


Chester,  who  had  acquired  dissolute  habits, 
fell  into  intemperance,  and  gradually  sank 
lower  and  lower,  until  he  became  a  social 
cast-off — a  wretched  cumberer  of  the  ground. 
And  thus  he  died  in  the  prime  of  manhood. 

Edward  Billings  still  lives,  and  is  one  of 
the  most  intelligent  and  successful  members 
of  the  bar  in  the  State  of  New  York.  He 
has  acquired  large  wealth;  and,  he  has 
gained  it  fairly.  The  error  into  which  his 
love  of  accumulation  first  led  him  was  pro- 
perly corrected  at  the  time  when  a  new 
and  healthier  form  was  given  to  his  grow- 
ing character. 

Few  men  succeed  who  do  not  begin 
right.  Early  errors  are  too  frequently  re- 
produced in  all  the  after  life.  This  wasting 
of  first  earnings  is  one  of  these  errors.  Let 
all  who  are  entering  the  world  beware  how 
they  fall  into  it. 


THE  LOKD  SEES  US. 


little  boys  were  walking  along  the 
road,  on  their  way  home  from  school, 
and  passed  by  an  orchard  in  which  were 
trees  full  of  ripe  fruit.  There  was  no  house 
in  sight,  and  no  one  but  themselves  in  the 
road  or  in  the  fields. 

"  Come,  Thomas,"  said  Lewis,  the  elder 
of  the  two  brothers,  "let  us  go  over  the 
fence  and  get  some  nice  apples.  Nobody 
will  see  us  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid,"  replied  Thomas. 

"Why  are  you  afraid?" 

"  I  am  sure  somebody  will  see  us." 

"  How  can  any  one  see  us  ?     There  is 


130  THE   LORD   SEES   US. 


nobody  in  sight.  Come  along !  I  am  not 
afraid." 

After  some  more  persuasion,  Thomas  said 
he  would  go,  and  then  these  two  little  boys 
climbed  over  the  fence  to  take  the  apples 
that  did  npt  belong  to  them.  That  was 
very  wrong.  It  was  a  sin  against  God.  It 
was  breaking  one  of  his  holy  command- 
ments. Do  you  know  which  commandment 
it  was? — Thou  shalt  not  steal.  Yes,  my 
son,  that  is  the  commandment  these  little 
boys  were  breaking.  And  they  thought  no 
one  saw  them.  But  they  were  mistaken. 

"  Who  did  see  them  ?" 

Listen,  and  you  shall  hear.  Thomas  fol- 
lowed his  brother  Lewis  over  the  fence, 
and  they  went  to  a  tree  full  of  red  apples, 
and  commenced  throwing  up  stones  to 
knock  the  fruit  down.  Two  or  three  beau- 
tiful apples  had  fallen,  when  Thomas,  who 
had  picked  up  one,  and  had  it  nearly  in 
his  pocket,  let  it  fall,  and  said  to  his  brother 
in  a  low  voice,  and  with  a  look  of  alarm : 

"  Somebody  does  see  us,  Lewis." 


THE   LORD    SEES   US.  131 


"  Who  sees  us  ?"  said  Lewis,  dropping 
an  apple  he  had  just  commenced  eating, 
and  looking  all  around. 

"  The  Lord  sees  us"  answered  Thomas. 
"  You  know,  mother  says  the  Lord  always 
sees  us." 

Lewis  had  two  apples  in  his  pocket,  but 
he  took  them  both  out  and  threw  them 
upon  the  ground,  and  taking  his  brother 
by  the  hand,  said — 

"  Yes,  the  Lord  sees  us — I  forgot  that." 
Then  the  two  children  hurried  out  of  the 
orchard  as  fast  as  they  could  go,  and  went 
home  and  told  their  mother  what  they  had 
done,  and  she  said  to  them — 

"Yes,  my  children,  the  Lord  always 
sees  you :  never  forget  that.  But  you  should 
not  do  any  thing  wrong,  even  if  the  Lord 
could  not  see  you.  He  says,  Thou  slialt  not 
steal,  and  because  he  says  so,  you  should 
never  take  any  thing  that  belongs  to 
another.  It  is  evil  to  do  so;  and  you 
should  shun  all  evil  as  sin  against  God. 

IX.— L 


132  THE   LORD    SEES    US. 


I  am  glad  you  have  told  me  of  your  fault. 
Always  come  to  me  and  tell  me  when 
you  do  wrong,  and  I  will  help  you  to  do 

right." 


THE  PET   SPAKROW. 


E  following  pleasant  story  is  from  the 
French.      The    translation  is   by   a 
friend. 

Madame  Helvetius,  the  amiable  wife  of 
the  celebrated  author  of  that  name,  had 
a  remarkable  fondness  for  birds.  At  her 
country  residence  a  large  and  beautiful 
aviary  had  been  fitted  up,  in  which  was«a_ 
large  collection  of  these  little  favourites. 
But  this  benevolent  lady,  aware  that  no* 
luxuries  can  compensate  for  the  loss  of 
independence  and  liberty,  allowed  her 
guests  to  rove  at  pleasure  in  the  neighbour- 
hood during  the  day,  and  only  closed  their 
dwelling-place  at  night,  to  preserve  them 


134  THE   PET    SPARROW. 


from  destructive  animals.  It  is  true  that, 
at  the  appearance  of  fine  weather,  the 
number  diminished  very  much  and  few 
returned  after  the  cold  winds  and  storms 
of  March  had  passed ;  preferring  an  insect 
picked  up  at  random,  the  muddy  water  of 
a  pond,  the  shelter  of  the  foliage  of  a  tree, 
to  the  grains  of  millet,  the  limpid  water, 
and  the  downy  nests  of  the  aviary.  In  the 
winter,  however,  when  it  was  more  difficult 
to  obtain  food,  numbers  were  again  attracted 
to  these  pleasant  quarters. 

Madame  Helvetius  usually  spent  the 
winter  season  in  Paris,  whither  she  went 
toward  the  end  of  January,  but  she  never 
left  her  then  numerous  and  cherished  guests 
without  regret.  The  winter  of  1788,  so 
remarkable  for  its  intense  cold,  and  the 
great  amount  of  suffering  experienced 
during  the  first  two  months  of  the  year, 
will  long  be  remembered  in  France.  The 
swiftest  mountain  streams  were  frozen, 
and  some  of  the  oldest  forests  partially 
destroyed.  Beasts  of  prey,  pressed  by  hun- 


THE   PET   SPARKOW.  135 


ger,  were  to  be  seen  prowling  around  the 
villages,  plundering  the  sheepfolds  and 
devouring  every  living  thing  that  they 
could  find.  Travellers  were  frequently 
found  upon  the  roads  frozen  to  death  and 
seemingly  petrified.  Thousands  of  birds 
were  caught  in  the  snares  set  for  them,  into 
which  they  rushed,  enticed  by  the  smallest 
morsel  of  food,  and  regardless  of  danger. 
One  might  almost  have  been  led  to  suppose 
that  the  earth  had  changed  its  position, 
and  that  France  now  occupied  the  place  of 
Nova  Zembla  or  Greenland. 

Madame  Helvetius  extended  her  succours 
to  all  the  needy  in  the  quarter  of  Paris 
where  she  was  established.  Her  kind  heart 
felt  for  all  the  suffering  beings  which  sur- 
rounded her. 

Her  favourites,  the  birds,  were  also  re- 
membered. The  windows  of  her  apartment 
looked  out  upon  a  terrace,  upon  which  she. 
threw  grain  that  was  eagerly  sought  every 
morning  by  a  number  of  sparrows  which, 
at  night,  took  shelter  in  the  stables,  and 


136  THE   PET    SPAKROW. 


during  the  day  sought  everywhere  for 
food.  She  delighted  to  step  out,  notwith- 
standing the  rigour  of  the  weather,  to  scat- 
ter grains  to  the  poor  birds,  which  would 
flock  around,  tamed  by  their  necessities, 
and  sometimes  almost  fly  into  her  apart- 
ment. 

One  day,  as  she  was  standing  upon  the 
terrace,  enjoying  the  eager  haste  with  which 
the  little  creatures  caught  up  the  food 
thrown  to  them,  a  sparrow  lit  upon  her 
shoulder,  flew  upon  her  hand,  and  then 
nestled  in  her  bosom.  Supposing  at  first 
that  its  boldness  was  caused  by  the  suffer- 
ing it  experienced  from  the  extreme  cold, 
she  caressed  it  and  carried  it  to  the  fire. 
But  perceiving  that  it  perched  familiarly 
on  her  hand,  and  did  not  appear  to  feel  the 
least  dread,  she  concluded  it  must  be  a  pet 
of  some  one,  which  had  escaped,  and  been 
attracted  to  the  terrace,  like  the  other 
birds,  by  the  grain  scattered  there.  After 
having  detained  the  little  thing  for  some 
time,  Madame  Helvetius,  not  wishing  to 


THE    PET    SPARROW.  187 


deprive  it  of  its  liberty,  opened  a  window, 
and,  with  a  kiss,  let  it  go,  saying — 

"  Fly  quickly,  thou  little  wanderer,  to 
those  who  doubtless  regret  thy  loss ;  but  if 
thou  dost  not  find  an  asylum,  return  and 
take  refuge  in  this  bosom,  which  will 
always  be  ready  to  receive  and  cherish 
thee!" 

The  bird  flew  away,  and  soon  disappeared 
among  the  trees  of  the  garden. 

The  next  day,  when  Madame  Helvetius 
came  out  as  usual  upon  the  terrace,  the 
same  sparrow  flew  familiarly  down  upon 
her  hand,  and  seemed  to  express  by  its 
confidence  the  liveliest  gratitude  to  its 
kind  protectress.  In  caressing  the  bird, 
Madame  Helvetius  perceived  around  its 
neck  a  piece  of  blue  silk  lace,  to  which 
was  attached  the  end  of  the  finger  of  a 
glove  formed  into  a  little  bag.  Passing  it 
between  her  fingers,  she  thought  she  per- 
ceived the  crepitation  of  paper ;  she  opened 
it  with  the  liveliest  curiosity,  and  found  in 
it  a  very  small  piece  of  paper  folded  into 


138  THE   PET    SPARROW. 


the  narrowest  compass,  upon  which  were 
written  several  lines  bearing  every  evi- 
dence of  haste  and  agitation,  the  ink  being 
scarcely  dry.  The  two  first  lines  had  been 
changed  from  Racine  to  read — 

"  Thou  givest  food  to  the  young  of  the  bird, 
And  thy  goodness  extends  to  all  nature." 

Moved  as  much  as  surprised,  Madame 
Helvetius  hastened  to  read  the  rest  of  the 
billet,  which  contained  the  following: 

"  Virtuous  persons  in  your  vicinity  are 
suffering  from  want;  will  you  do  less  for 
them  than  for  the  numerous  family  which 
you  feed  every  morning  ?" 

"  No !"  said  she,  giving  away  to  her 
emotion,  "  it  would  be  impossible  to  resist 
a  demand  so  touching !" 

And  going  to  the  desk,  she  took  from  it 
a  bank-note  of  six  hundred  livres,  and 
placing  it  in  vthe  little  bag,  gave  the  spar- 
rowr  many  kisses  for  its  commission,  ^and 
let  it  fly.  She  watched  carefully  its  flight, 
in  the  hope  of  discovering  the  house  from 
which  it  had  come,  but  it  was  soon  lost  to 


THE   PET   SPARROW.  189 


her  ^  view  among  the  trees  of  the  garden. 
She  was  at  a  loss  to  imagine  how  the  spar- 
row had  been  taught  to  bear  this  message 
to  her. 

"By  what  means,"  said  she  to  herself, 
"was  it  made  to  direct  its  flight  toward 
my  apartment,  at  the  moment  when  I  was 
feeding  his  companions  in  misfortune;  to 
light  upon  my  shoulder  and  to  distinguish 
me ;  in  a  word,  to  choose  me  to  relieve  the 
sufferings  of  those  of  whom  it  is  the  charm- 
ing representative  ?  I  am  lost  in  astonish- 
ment !" 

Many  days  passed,  during  which  Ma- 
dame Helvetius  thought  constantly  of  this 
singular  occurrence.  She  mentioned  it, 
however,  to  no  one,  as  that  would  have 
been  to  reveal  what  it  might  be  supposed 
she  considered  a  meritorious  action.  Some- 
times, too,  as  she  had  much  knowledge  of 
the  world,  she  was  inclined  to  believe  that 
she  might  have  been  the  dupe  of  some  dis- 
honest persons,  for,  ever,  among  the  really 

IX.— 9 


140  THE   PET   SPARROW. 


needy,  are  those  who  present  false  claima 
to  our  charity. 

A  few  mornings  after,  as  she  was  brush- 
ing away  the  snow,  to  attract  her  little 
favourites,  the  faithful  messenger  returned, 
bearing  upon  its  neck  the  same  little  bag, 
into  which  this  kind-hearted  lady  had  put 
the  bank-note.  She  prepared  herself  for  a 
new  demand  upon  her  purse,  but  what  was 
her  surprise  to  find  a  note,  couched  in  these 
terms : 

"  Your  generosity  has  saved  an  almost 
perishing  artist  with  a  large  family.  Rest 
assured  that  the  six  hundred  livres  will  be 
returned  to  you,  as  soon  as  the  spring 
enables  us,  by  the  labour  of  our  hands, 
to  acquire  sufficient  to  pay  it  back  to  you." 

Madame  Helvetius  read  many  times  this 
anonymous  note,  and,  as  she  perceived  that 
many  words  were  blotted,  as  if  the  tears 
of  the  writer  had  fallen  upon  the  paper, 
she  was  no  longer  able  to  restrain  her's, 
and  felt  more  than  ever  pleased  that  she 
had  yielded  to  the  first  promptings  of  her 


THE   PET   SPARROW.  141 


heart.  She  retained  the  little  messenger 
for  some  time,  loading  it  with  caresses; 
but  feeling  that  the  bird  must  be  dear  to 
those  who  had  committed  their  destiny  to 
the  little  creature,  she  set  it  free,  after 
having  placed  in  the  bag  the  following 
answer  to  the  note  : 

"  In  sending  the  note,  I  had  intended  it 
as  a  gift ;  but  I  cannot  now  consider  it  in 
that  light,  for  the  happiness  of  having  been 
useful  renders  me  your  debtor." 

A  considerable  time  elapsed  without 
again  bringing  the  sparrow.  Madame 
Helvetius  would  sometimes  think  she  re- 
cognised it  among  the  crowd  that  daily 
came  to  her  terrace ;  but  the  moment  she 
attempted  to  approach  them  with  the  in- 
tention of  taking  it  up,  the  whole  flock 
would  take  to  flight  as  if  she  were  a  bird 
of  prey. 

At  last,  as  the  intensity  of  the  cold  di- 
minished, and  the  melting  snow,  giving 
way  under  the  rays  of  the  sun,  which  be- 
came every  day  more  powerful,  announced 


142  THE    PET    SPARROW. 


the  approach  of  spring.  Madame  Helve- 
tius  now  vainly  threw  out  grain  upon  the 
terrace :  it  attracted  but  a  small  number  of 
her  dear  guests :  already  finding  sufficient 
for  their  necessities,  and  already  occupied 
in  building  their  nests,  they  rarely  came  to 
this  feeding-place.  They  appeared,  indeed, 
to  grow  wilder  as  the  fine  weather  ap- 
proached. In  the  beginning  of  May  this 
lady  left  Paris  for  her  residence  in  the 
country,  that  she  might  repair  the  evils  of 
the  past  winter.  She  hastened  to  restore 
her  aviary,  which  had  suffered  some  injury 
by  the  frost,  to  its  former  comfortable  con- 
dition; and  each  time  she  looked  upon  a 
sparrow  in  her  collection,  her  mind  natu- 
rally reverted  to  the  charming  little  mes- 
senger of  the  unknown  family.  Although 
this  species  of  bird  are  not  remarkable 
either  for  the  variety  of  their  songs  or  the 
beauty  of  their  plumage,  Madame  Helve- 
tius  now  showed  a  predilection  for  all  spar- 
rows ;  the  reason  for  which  was  known 
only  to  her  own  generous  heart. 


THE    PET    SPARROW.  143 


Toward  the  middle  of  summer  she  was 
compelled,  in  consequence  of  some  business 
matters,  to  give  up  her  country  occupations 
and  go  to  Paris.  A  few  days  after  her 
arrival,  as  she  was  inhaling  the  pure  morn- 
ing air  from- her  pleasant  terrace,  she  per- 
ceived the  faithful  sparrow,  bearing  upon 
its  neck  the  same  little  bag;  but  it  was 
flying  about  from  spot  to  spot,  seemingly 
undecided  whether  to  alight,  and  not  ap- 
pearing to  recognise  its  former  friend.  She 
vainly  called  it,  throwing  grain  and  making 
a  thousand  caressing  signs :  the  bird  passed 
and  repassed,  above  her  head,  seeming  to 
have  a  wish  to  alight,  yet  still  fearing  to 
do  so.  Madame  Helve  tius  then  thought 
that  it  might  be  some  change  of  dress 
which  caused  this  estrangement,  and,  en- 
tering her  apartment,  she  hastily  put  on 
the  winter  clothing  in  which  she  had  re- 
ceived the  sparrow  many  months  before, 
and  reappeared  upon  the  terrace.  The 
bird  instantaneously  alighted  familiarly 
upon  her  shoulder,  expressing  pleasure  and 


144  THE    PET    SPARROW. 


confidence  by  all  its  movements.  She  has- 
tened to  open  the  bag,  and  found  in  it  the 
same  sum  she  had  placed  there  some 
months  before,  with  a  note,  containing 
these  words : 

"  We  hasten  to  return  to  ,you  the  sum 
you  had  the  kindness  to  lend  us ;  but,  for 
your  benevolence,  we  retain  our  gratitude, 
which  will  remain  for  ever  engraved  upon 
our  hearts !" 

She  was  at  first  tempted  to  return  the 
sum,  but  she  reflected  that  this  would  be 
to  deprive  these  estimable  persons  of  the 
sweet  pleasure  of  liquidating  what  they 
must  have  considered  a  sacred  debt.  She 
then  desired  to  accustom  the  intelligent 
little  emissary  to  her  summer  clothing,  and, 
putting  off  her  velvet  dress  and  furred 
pelisse,  she  appeared  in  a  simple  white 
muslin  gown.  The  pet  sparrow  soon  be- 
came familiar  with  the  new  dress;  and  as 
its  intelligence  and  the  service  it  had  ren- 
dered often  procured  its  liberty,  the  little 
creature  would  come  every  morning  to  the 


THE   PET   SPARROW.  145 


terrace  of  Madame  Helve  this,  arid,  if  she  did 
not  at  once  make  her  appearance,  would 
peck  at  the  window,  never  leaving  without, 
as  it  were,  paying  homage  to  its  bene- 
factress. 

On  a  Sunday  morning  a  few  days  after, 
Madame  Helvetius  had  been  enjoying  her- 
self in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  her  favourite 
promenade,  and,  becoming  a  little  wearied, 
had  set  down  with  some  friends  of  distinc- 
tion to  rest  herself.  As  she  was  conversing 
with  them,  the  messenger  sparrow  flew 
from  the  lap  of  a  young  girl  seated  upon  a 
bank  of  turf  opposite  to  her,  lit  upon  her 
shoulder,  and,  by  its  actions,  seemed  to 
recognise  her. 

"  Why,  this  is  my  pretty  emissary," 
said  she,  covering  the  little  thing  with 
kisses ;  "  but  how,  I  wonder,  came  it  in  a 
public  garden,  in  the  midst" 

"Excuse  me,  inadame,"  said  a  young 
girl,  about  ten  or  twelve  years  of  age, 
coming  up,  "but  this  pet  sparrow  is  my 
sister's." 


146  THE   PET   SPARROW. 


"And  who  is  your  sister,  my  little 
dear  ?" 

"That  young  girl  there,  dressed  in 
white,  whom  you  see  near  my  father  and 
mother.  The  sparrow  belongs  to  her,  ma- 
dame,  I  assure  you;  and  she  would  not 
part  with  it  for  all  the  world." 

She  pointed  out  a  girl  of  apparently  six- 
teen or  seventeen  years  of  age,  with  an 
interesting  countenance,  who,  blushing  with 
joy  and  surprise,  said  to  her  parents — 

"  It  is  she !    Yes,  it  is  herself!" 

Madame  Helvetius  soon  found  herself 
surrounded  by  the  now  happy  family,  all  ex- 
pressing the  liveliest  feelings  of  gratitude. 
The  eldest  daughter  was  so  much  agitated 
that  she  could  not  utter  a  word,  but  taking 
the  hands  of  Madame  Helvetius  in  her 
own,  she  pressed  them  to  her  heart,  cover- 
ing them  with  tears.  The  faithful  sparrow, 
flying  from  one  to  another,  seemed  to  par- 
take of  the  general  emotion,  and  completed 
the  refreshing  picture. 

When,  at  last,  the  young  Lise,  which 


THE   PET   SPARROW.  147 


was  the  name  of  the  girl,  found  herself 
able  to  speak,  she  informed  Madame  Hel- 
vetius  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  a 
carver  of  wood,  named  Yalmont;  that  in 
consequence  of  her  father's  long  illness  and 
want  of  employment,  his  whole  family  had 
been  reduced  to  the  extreme  of  necessity. 
She  said  that  the  reputation  of  Madame 
Helvetius  for  benevolence  had  inspired  her 
with  the  idea  of  trying  to  procure  the 
succour  for  which  the  pride  of  her  father 
would  not  have  allowed  her  to  make  appli- 
cation; and  that,  without  the  knowledge 
of  her  parents,  she  made  the  attempt  of 
sending  her  sparrow,  the  sagacity  of  which 
had  enabled  her  to  succeed  beyond  her 
most  sanguine  expectations. 

"  But  I  cannot  understand,"  said  Madame 
Helvetius,  "  the  means  by  which  you  were 
enabled  to  direct  the  flight  of  your  little 
messenger  to  my  apartment." 

"  Oh,  madame !  if  you  knew  how  much 
pain  it  cost  me  !"  replied  the  young  Lise, 
caressing  the  sparrow,  which  was  now 


148  THE    PET    SPARROW. 


nestling  in  her  bosom.  "  I  was  compelled 
to  expose  him  to  the  cold,  and  to  have  the 
cruelty  to  deprive  him  of  food  for  entire 
days,  that  he  might  become  attracted  by 
the  grains  which  you  threw  out  to  the 
other  birds,  and  become  familiar  with  you. 
I  could  see  all  from  the  window  of  my 
chamber,  which  looked  down  upon  your 
garden.  Sometimes  the  poor  little  fright- 
ened thing  would,  when  thrust  out,  fly 
about  the  neighbourhood,  and  return  after 
a  long  time,  attracted  by  my  voice ;  some- 
times, pursued  by  the  savage  sparrows,  he 
would  return  wounded  by  their  beaks,  with 
torn  wings.  At  last,  I  saw  him  one  day  fly 
around  you  and  light  upon  your  shoulder ; 
the  next  day,  after  having  kept  him  from 
food,  watching  the  moment  when  you  came 
out  upon  the  terrace,  to  scatter  the  grain, 
I  ventured  to  send  my  first  note.  You 
know  the  rest !" 

Madame  Helvetius,  notwithstanding  the 
number  of  persons  that  surrounded  her,  was 
unable  to  restrain  her  emotion.  She  saw 


THE   PET    SPARROW.  149 


in  this  interesting  occurrence,  the  most 
beautiful  and  touching  instance  of  filial 
piety.  She  pressed  to  her  heart  many 
times  the  young  girl,  thanked  her  for 
having  chosen  herself  as  the  instrument  to 
relieve  an  estimable  family,  and  begged 
her  still  to  allow  the  dear  little  bird  to 
visit  her  frequently. 

May  we  not,  on  this  occasion,  say  to 
the  reader,  that  it  is  better  to  extend  your 
charity  to  many  who  are  unworthy,  than 
to  neglect,  through  fear  of  imposition,  one 
who  really  needs  assistance. 


THE  POWER  OF  KIND  WORDS. 


BAKER,  and  his  brother 

Thomas  and  sister  Ellen,  were  play- 
ing on  the  green  lawn  in  front  of  their 
mother's  door,  when  a  lad  named  Henry 
Green  came  along  the  road,  and,  seeing  the 
children  enjoying  themselves,  opened  the 
gate  and  came  in.  He  was  rather  an  ill- 
natured  boy,  and  generally  took  more  plea- 
sure in  teasing  and  annoying  others  than 
in  being  happy  with  them.  When  William 
saw  him  coming  in  through  the  gate,  he 
called  out  to  him  and  said,  in  a  harsh  way : 
"  You  may  just  clear  out,  Henry  Green, 
and  go  about  your  business !  We  don't 
want  you  here." 


THE   POWER   OF   KIND   WORDS.  151 


But  Henry  did  not  in  the  least  regard 
what  William  said.  He  came  directly  for- 
ward, and  joined  in  the  sport  as  freely  as 
if  he  had  been  invited  instead  of  repulsed. 
In  a  little  while  he  began  to  pull  Ellen 
about  rudely,  and  to  push  Thomas,  so 
as  nearly  to  throw  them  down  upon  the 
grass. 

."  Go  home,  Henry  Green!  Nobody  sent 
for  you !  Nobody  wants  you  here !"  said 
William  Baker,  in  quite  an  angry  tone. 

It  was  of  no  use,  however.  William 
might  as  well  have  spoken  to  the  wind. 
His  words  were  entirely  unheeded  by 
Henry,  whose  conduct  became  ruder  and 
more  offensive. 

Mrs.  Baker,  who  sat  at  the  window,  saw 
and  heard  all  that  was  passing.  As  soon 
as  she  could,  catch  the  eye  of  her  excited 
son,  she  beckoned  him  to  come  to  her, 
which  he  promptly  did. 

"Try  kind  words  on  him,"  said  she, 
"  you  will  find  them  more  powerful  than 
harsh  words.  You  spoke  very  harshly  to 


152  THE   POWER   OF   KIND  WORDS. 


Henry  when  he  came  in,  and  I  was  sorry 
to  hear  it." 

"  It  won't  do  any  good,  mother.  He's  a 
rude,  bad  boy,  and  I  wish  he  would  stay 
away.  Won't  you  make  him  go  home  ?" 

"  First  go  and  speak  to  him  in  a  gentler 
way  than  you  did  just  now.  Try  to  subdue 
him  with  kindness." 

William  felt  that  he  had  been  wrong  in 
letting  his  angry  feelings  express  them- 
selves in  angry  words.  So  he  left  his 
mother  and  went  down  upon  the  lawn, 
where  Henry  was  amusing  himself  by  try- 
ing to  trip  the  children,  with  a  long  stick, 
as  they  ran  about  on  the  green. 

"  Henry,"  said  he,  cheerfully  and  plea- 
santly, "  if  you  were  fishing  in  the  river, 
and  I  was  to  come  and  throw  stones  in 
where  your  line  fell,  and  scare  away  all 
the  fish,  would  you  like  it  ?" 

"  No,  I  should  not,"  the  lad  replied. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  kind  in  me." 

"  No,  of  course  it  wouldn't." 

"  Well,  now,  Henry," — William  tried  to 


THE   POWER   OF    KIND   WORDS.  153 


smile  and  to  speak  very  pleasantly, — "  we 
are  playing  here  and  trying  to  enjoy  our- 
selves. Is  it  right  for  you  to  come  and 
interrupt  us  by  tripping  our  feet,  pulling: 
us  about,  and  pushing  us  down  ?  I  am  sur 
you  will  not  think  so  if  you  reflect  a  mo- 
ment. So  don't  do  it  any  more,  Henry." 

"  No,  I  will  not,"  replied  Henry  promptly. 
"  I  am  sorry  that  I  disturbed  you.  I  didn't 
think  what  I  was  doing.  And  now  I  re- 
member, father  told  ine  not  to  stay,  and  I 
must  run  home." 

So  Henry  Green  went  quickly  away, 
and  the  children  were  left  to  enjoy  them- 
selves. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  kind  words  were 
more  powerful  than  harsh  words,  "William," 
said  his  mother,  after  Henry  had  gone 
away.  "  When  we  speak  harshly  to  our 
fellows,  we  arouse  their  angry  feelings, 
and  then  the  evil  spirits  have  power  over 
them;  but,  when  we  speak  kindly,  we 
affect  them  with  gentleness,  and  good 
spirits  then  flow  into  this  latter  state,  and 


154  THE    POWER    OF   KIND   WORDS. 


excite  in  them  better  thoughts  and  inten- 
tions. How  quickly  Henry  changed  when 
you  changed  your  manner  and  the  cha- 
of  your  language !  Do  not  forget 
this,  my  son.  Do  not  forget  that  kind 
words  have  double  the  power  of  harsh 
ones." 


THE  END. 


STEREOTYPED  BY  L.  JOHNSOX  *  00. 


en 

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